That Holmes freak
by the drowsy poet
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet one day and suddenly they are no longer just one being. They are Sherlock-Holmes-and-John-Watson, not one without the other. Here are their cases, their laughter, their run ins with suit-wearing pyschopaths. High School AU. COMPLETE.
1. The New boy

_AN: Hi guys, just wanted you to know this is my first EVER fanfiction...so please be nice! :) I would love it if you could review; any comments, constructive criticism and some (hopefully) kind feedback would all be appreciated. This is set in an AU where Sherlock and John are both in Year 10. Enjoy!_

**CHAPTER 1.**

"Freak," someone spat.

Sherlock didn't turn to see who it was. This will only satisfy them; show them they had provoked a reaction, touched a nerve somewhere. The constant insults used to hurt, but that was long ago. He has learnt to deal with them now, and to be honest, it isn't hard. They were always the same, anyway. Freak. Retard. _Spastic_.

How mind numbingly _dull._

Sherlock had built up a barrier, a barrier that has become immune to hatred. And hatred is something the strange, pale boy often receives.

He sits with his chin resting on his hands, his face a mask, eyes closed. Some people might say his face is blank, but no, there is always something going on in his head. If you listen _really _close, you can even the cogs whirring in his brain.

Today, though, there's nothing interesting going on in there. The start of September had come with no new puzzles, no new mysteries, no nothing. Oh, except for the start of a new school year- Year 10 for the boy in question, but that wasn't exactly a big deal. Not with Sherlock, anyhow. He is bored.

People are so normal, so predictable. It's the same form as last year for Sherlock, much to his _and_ his form's annoyance. Yay, he was stuck with the same ignorant, stupid pricks for another painfully slow moving year. Yay, they were stuck with the freak again.

Though the first day of school usually does bring _some _form of interest for Sherlock. Who had gotten off with whom, who had cheated on whose boyfriend, who had spent their summer at the tanning salon- though had_ told_ everyone they had spent two weeks in Corsica… And boy, he doesn't_ hesitate_ to mention it.

Not always straight away, mind, just long enough to let them think they're safe to make a cutting remark, only for him to respond with the ice breaker. Then would come the bemused yet horrified look, the moment of shock when they realised what he had said.

_Predictable. _

But the next bit was always his favourite. The arguments would break out, (usually ending in tears from _more_ than one person) and now would come the slightly more imaginative insults. Pervert. Stalker_. Psycho._

Only 15 minutes into the school day, the teacher hadn't even turned up yet, and Sherlock already had enough scandalous information on his fellow students to keep him going for a while. About a month, perhaps?

The classroom door suddenly burst open, breaking Sherlock away from his chain of thought. In came a flushed, sandy haired boy, about 14 years old, though admittedly short for his age. It was obvious he worked out, coming from the slightly muscular chest, though he wasn't a fanatic. More likely he played some sort of sport; rugby probably.

His hair, as previously mentioned, was sandy coloured, and a little untamed. This was the current style for boy's hair, though this particular one didn't seem the type to be obsessed with image. Sherlock's guess was that he lived moderately far away from the school, therefore having to run here in order to arrive in time. (Hair becoming rumpled in the process) He didn't seem overly tired though, confirming the guess that he was fit.

"Sorry I'm late, Miss- the roads were closed and I had to r-" He broke off, blushing crimson as he noticed the teacher wasn't in the room. A few people tittered, looking curiously at the new boy.

He laughed it off, cheeks turning back to their normal colour as he walked over to a spare desk, plonking his trunk down on the seat. Immediately, the once rowdy classroom fell silent, eyes fixed on the boy. Or to be more accurate, the desk the boy had chosen.

The desk in question wasn't out of the ordinary. Biro-ed on doodles adorned the fake wooden top; someone had tried to scrub them away, though admittedly in vain. He looked underneath. Sticky clumps of chewing gum were stuck to the bottom, but there wasn't a desk in the classroom that didn't include that built-in feature.

So what was so extraordinary about this desk?

The answer was about to be received.

"Dude, you don't want to sit _there!_" One of the more 'popular' boys called to him, nudging his mate and trying not to laugh. The boy looked confused.

"What's wrong with sitting here?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, eyebrows furrowed. The boy seriously hadn't caught on yet. Wow, some people really _were_ idiots.

"Unless he _wants _to sit next to the freak." It was a girl this time. Typical cliché of a popular. Long, mussed up blonde hair (which Sherlock noticed must have taken her an _awfully_ long time to get just right- all that careful backcombing to make it look like she hadn't made an effort!), heavily eye-linered blue eyes, skirt at least 5 inches above the regulation length, etc etc. Not the prettiest girl in the room, but by far the most confident. You get the gist.

She hadn't said it loudly, but loud enough for the boy to hear. "What are you talking about?" He asked, still oblivious.

Sherlock decided to step in. This was becoming painful to watch.

He sighed exasperatedly, then spoke in a smooth, low voice, just loud enough for the whole classroom to hear. "What _dear_ Kirsty means, is that the desk you've chosen is next to mine. I suggest you move before the freak rubs off on you, and God _knows _what that could do you your reputation…"

There was a short silence before the new boy spoke. He was looking at the pale creature who had just spoken to him with a curious expression on his face. Something about the ice cool boy intrigued him, whether it was those penetrating, icy blue eyes that seemed to by x-raying him, or the somewhat bored expression on his face, he did not know.

"I like to make my own decisions about where I sit; thanks very much. So if you don't mind, I'll stay here for the moment." He glared at the class defiantly before drawing out the chair in front of him and sitting down.

He turned to the boy who had probably just ruined pretty much all of his chances of ever fitting in, and extended his arm.

"I'm John. John Watson." He said with a smile, arm still raised awkwardly in the air between the two boys. Sherlock stared at it, silent as ever.

When it became clear that he wasn't about to respond, John spoke again. "And you are…?" He asked, grinning, and pointed at his hand. "Oh, and you're meant to shake it."

Sherlock continued to stare. Then, ever so slowly, he raised his own hand, carefully interlocking his cool, slender fingers with John's. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." They shook. Sherlock was surprised at the strength of the other boy's grip.

His voice was so quiet and unnaturally low that John struggled to hear it over the re-assumed chatter of the class.

The two boys looked at each other, both waiting for the other one to speak. Usually this kind of awkward situation made John feel extremely uncomfortable, but something about the boys gaze made the silence bearable.

After a couple of seconds, Sherlock stepped in. "You don't have to sit here, you know. Your presence at this school will be made much easier if you move next to someone…" He stopped, choosing his words carefully. "Else."

John raised his eyebrows. "I didn't sit here for you. I sat here because I, as an individual, have the right to decide where I sit, thanks."

Sherlock felt a sudden liking towards this boy. He laughed; a low, quiet laugh. Even for John, someone who had only just met the boy, it was easy to see that what had just occurred wasn't something common.

"Suit yourself."

They looked at one another again, holding each other's gaze until they were interrupted by the sound of the teacher coming into the room. Chairs were scraped brutally against the rough carpet as the class quickly stood up, welcoming her presence.

"Good morning, form. Nice to see you again after six weeks away. I hope you all enjoyed your summers, and are ready for the long year ahead!"

They endured the same speech every year.

The middle aged teacher beamed around at the class, her smile widening when she spotted John. "Ah, John, isn't it? Come to the front, dear, so we can introduce you to the class." She beckoned to him to come.

John stood awkwardly in front of them, looking at the floor. They glared back, obviously not forgetting their previous meeting with the new boy.

"So, John." The teacher smiled; apparently oblivious to the deathly gaze he was receiving from all but one members of the class. "I'm Mrs Thompson, and I'll be your form tutor for the year." She looked pointedly at the ancient suitcase on top of the desk John had just vacated. "I see you haven't had a chance to move into your dorm yet… never mind, when the bell rings I'm sure you'll get a chance to."

She waited for John to answer, perhaps give a word of thanks to the lady. He didn't. Her radiant smile drooped for a second, and she quickly recovered herself by picking up a sheet from on top of the cluttered desk.

"Right… Hm, well, unfortunately, it looks like almost everybody in the class has already got a dorm buddy, my dear. I'm sorry, but you may have to- Oh, ignore me, must be going mad in my old age… seems like there's one student by themselves!"

She beamed. The class looked at each other, trying not to snigger.

"So, let me see…" She continued. "Dorm, err, 221B has currently only got one occupant. Is that alright with you, honey?"

John winced slightly at the sickly term of endearment, and nodded. "Yes, that's fine with me. Who am I pairing with?"

Mrs Thompson looked down at the list once more, her smile vanishing in an instant as she read something. "Ah, well it seems to be… Sherlock Holmes, pet." She looked up at him, worried, as though waiting for a complaint.

"Great. Where do I get the keys?"


	2. The skull isn't moving

_AN: Hi everyone... I would love, love, LOVE it if you could review- comments, feedback, constructive criticism; anything at all I would appreciate! Sherlock and John don't __**properly **__talk until Chapter 3 (I'm making you wait) so I'm still building up the tension until their first, famous meeting. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: However much I would love to; I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone else. *sobs.* They are property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. _

**CHAPTER 2:**

The rest of registration seemed to pass in a flash for Sherlock. His new timetable, lunch menu and Year 10 information sheet were ignored; he would just lose them, anyway. Though not before their contents were locked into his brain, or 'mind palace' as he preferred to think of it.

He watched John with interest. New kids were a type of 'treat' in his mind- finally something fresh he could occupy his brain with! It would only take a couple of minutes at most to figure out their life story, and then he would scare them senseless by telling them so.

But this wasn't why he was so interested in John. Sure, he had already figured out quite a bit about the boy from their first meeting, but there was something else, something… different about him that Sherlock was awed by.

He had stuck up for Sherlock for no reason, even though it had probably cost him his reputation that was still so fresh and undamaged in the school. In a way, Sherlock 'respected' him for this. The fact that John had so willingly accepted the fact he would be sharing a room with the 'freak,' he couldn't wrap his head round, either.

But the thing that confused Sherlock more than anything else, (which was quite a new experience for the boy) was the immediate liking he felt for John. There had been plenty of people he had thoroughly disliked in his life,_ many_ he hated, a few he could even find 'bearable,' but none that he actually _liked._

Sherlock didn't like being confused, nor did he like the weird, yet strangely pleasant, feeling in his stomach as he thought about the boy. He was determined to find out what it was that made him feel like this about someone he had barely even spoken to, and Sherlock wasn't the type to give up easily.

Only cowards back down without a fight.

* * *

John could feel Sherlock's gaze on him as he pretended to look at their new timetable. He wondered what the boy was thinking about. He seemed so still, so concentrated on something.

Sherlock's brows were furrowed in deep concentration and his intense eyes were narrowed suspiciously. The sooty black curls of his hair kept falling into them, and after a while he gave up brushing them away, leading to his absolute stillness. This, along with his deathly pale complexion, made him look almost ghost-like.

The bell rang, bringing both of them crashing back to earth. They stood up at the exact same time, reaching for their trunks.

"Um, I was w-wondering if you could show me where our room is?" John muttered uncertainly to the taller boy. He was indeed_ very_ tall for his age, which for John, someone who was quite a lot smaller than the average height, _wasn't_ a good thing.

"Sure." Came the reply. John had discovered by now that Sherlock wasn't the most talkative of people.

He followed Sherlock up 2 flights of stairs and 3 identical looking corridors. The boy certainly seemed to know his way around very well, something that John knew would take him quite a while to learn.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, causing John to crash into him. "Whoa, err, sorry mate. Is this it?" He asked, regaining his balance and glancing at the door Sherlock had stopped in front of. The plaque read 221B.

"State the obvious, why don't you?" His tone was cold, but not entirely unfriendly.

He slotted his key into the hole and pushed open the door, stepping aside to allow John inside the room. That was odd. He didn't usually care about manners, or what people thought about him for that matter, but he had felt like he needed to make a good impression to his new roommate.

The room itself could have been nice if it weren't for the odd choice of furniture and slightly pungent odour that seemed to be coming from a misshapen plant in the corner, yet John wasn't put off by this. He would have to tidy up a bit, (he was a naturally tidy person, after all) but the room had…character. The only thing that really had to go, John thought, was the human skull that was sitting on the mantelpiece.

"The skull isn't moving."

The sound of Sherlock's voice made John jump. He laughed, caught out. "That obvious, is it?" Sherlock just smiled, confirming this view.

John smiled back; a true, genuine smile, and in that one small, insignificant moment, the two boys both felt happier than they had in a long, _long_ time.

* * *

It didn't take John long to unpack. There wasn't much _to_ unpack, if you thought about it. The vast amount of oversized, woolly jumpers he owned and loved took up a considerable amount of space in his suitcase, giving the impression that he had taken a lot more than he actually had done.

Apart from the jumpers, there wasn't much else stored in the ancient suitcase. A pair of jeans, a wash bag, some books and his sister's old laptop was all that was left to unpack. Harry had been going through an 'emo' phase while she was in possession of the laptop, and there were tiny, peeling skull stickers adorning the lid.

John sighed. He needed to go shopping urgently. The small room looked hideously empty, and he immediately regretted leaving all his old football posters at home.

He could imagine his old room if he closed his eyes real hard. It was painted green, his favourite colour, but the paint was hidden by all the bookcases and posters that lined the walls. His bed had had a Superman duvet cover, much too childish for the now 14 year old boy, but John missed it all the same.

His throat ached when he thought about home.

* * *

Sherlock lay stretched out on the moth-eaten sofa with his eyes closed. As mentioned before, he was rather tall for his age, but he hadn't yet acquired that towering, lanky frame that would soon define him. His sudden growth spurt was soon to come, nevertheless.

He pretended not to hear when John entered the room, only opening his eyes when the boy cleared his throat awkwardly, stating his presence.

"I, err, was wondering if you wanted a cup o' tea…" He mumbled, gaze directed at his feet. It amused Sherlock to see John's obvious shyness, though he didn't say anything. That was odd too. Usually, a handful of snarky comments would immediately pop into his mind, but Sherlock didn't feel right saying them to John.

He wrote this off as merely wanting to make a good first impression to his roommate, but that weird feeling in the pit of his stomach was back, and continued to gnaw away at his insides for the rest of the day.

It was only then that the two boys finally had their first, _proper_ conversation.


	3. Normal conversation? Yeah, right

_AN: Hi, fellow Sherlockians...It's Chapter 3 time! Thanks for the lovely comments from SexyRemusLupin and Over Obsessed 999, they made me one very happy girl. Please don't forget to review, and most of all, enjoy..._

_Disclaimer: As previously stated, I don't own the cast of Sherlock, who belong wholly to the legend that was Arthur Conan Doyle and the heartless men who ruined my life, Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Besides, if I wrote Sherlock, Sherlock and John would have kissed long ago. Just to make that clear._

**CHAPTER 3:**

Lessons were finished for the day and Sherlock was bored out of his mind. He had just had Physics, and the work they'd been doing on the Periodic Table was _much_ too simple for his liking. Sherlock had memorised that when he was _seven_, for god's sake.

His brain reminded him it was dinner time, and he had to get up to look at the calendar; see what day it was. It was 2 days ago since he had last eaten a proper meal, meaning he had exactly one day to go until he would start feeling light headed.

Logic was always the best solution for such unimportant beings as food. He couldn't understand why people made such a fuss about his eating timetable! I mean, you can survive a couple of days without food, so that's what he did. Why was this so hard for people to understand? And besides, eating slowed his brain down.

Sherlock sighed happily, and picked up a science textbook that was lying on the table beside him. It was an A Level textbook which he had stolen from his brother's case, but he understood the basic properties of it, and could do with some light reading.

It was hard to admit even to himself, but Sherlock wanted to impress people with his brains. And if that meant studying something that was _way_ beyond his level, that's what he did. He couldn't be ordinary like the other students.

Ordinary. Even the thought of the word repulsed him.

Shaking his head to clear away the stray thoughts, Sherlock looked down at the textbook clutched in his hands. He began to read, but the information wasn't processing- in fact, it didn't even seem to be entering his brain.

What was happening to him? _Why _couldn't he concentrate? Whenever he tried to focus on something, his mind kept slipping back to the blonde haired boy who was causing him so much grief. He let out a low bark of irritation and threw the book at the door, collapsing onto the sofa with his head in his hands.

This feeling had to go, and it had to go now.

* * *

John didn't see Sherlock at dinner, and felt worried. He had noticed earlier how unnaturally thin the boy was, and wondered whether he had some type of eating disorder. He wouldn't be surprised.

John couldn't understand why he suddenly felt so concerned about his cold, bitter roommate. He passed this off as just wanting to make a good impression... That's all it could be, right?

Nevertheless, he ate a little quicker than usual, not speaking to anyone on the surrounding tables. Not that they made an effort to speak to him, though; obviously the little incident with Sherlock and the desk had spread faster than he thought.

Well, it was secondary school after all; and nothing stays secret for long.

* * *

Ten minutes later, John reached the door of dorm 221B. He looked at the chipped black paint warily before turning the handle. Was this a good idea?

There was only one way to find out.

Even before John had opened his mouth, Sherlock knew what was about to be said. He decided to save John the pain.

"You want to know if I've eaten. The answer? No." He raised his eyebrows at the look of mingled confusion and worry on the boy's face. "Don't be concerned, John, I can last for up to 3 days without food, so maybe just focus on your own eating habits for the time being instead of sticking your nose into mine."

It was said in such a bland, matter of fact way that John felt slightly hurt. His whole body seemed to sag, almost like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The dejected look on the blonde's face was too much for Sherlock to bear. The feeling in his stomach grew stronger as each second went by, and he cursed himself for his ever present tactlessness that seemed to dominate his thoughts.

In a strangled whisper, Sherlock spoke. "I'm s-sor-"

He swallowed, a lump appearing in his throat. The word was even harder to say than he had imagined. "I'm sorry, John. Not good?"He tried to laugh it off, though the sound was forced and shaky.

John could tell that this was a big thing for the boy. This touched him immensely, and his liking for the boy instantly doubled. "Yeah." He grinned shyly. "A bit not good, Sherlock."

The tender way in which John said his name made Sherlock's heart do a somersault. What was this, this irritating feeling that overpowered his chest? As he tried to look up at the blonde, it suddenly became hard to swallow.

_What has Mummy always told you, Sherlock? Feelings; they're a sign of weakness. Block them out. Don't let them ruin you. _

The cold demeanour resurfaced, though it wasn't the same as before. Too forced, too unnatural. Yet this reassumed state he was in didn't kill the curiosity he held for John. Sherlock needed to find out more, and the only way for this to happen was a conversation.

A normal, human conversation. Sherlock had no problem with talking to people, (Well, insulting them) but he didn't have... conversations. Something that may seem laughably easy for most people, for a high functioning sociopath such as himself, this was a big deal. A _very_ big deal.

_Relax. Take a deep breath. Good, now talk. Not insult, talk._

"Um, so... how was your day?" He tried. _God, how pathetic_.

John laughed, blue eyes twinkling as he plopped himself onto the sofa next to Sherlock. "Oh, come on, mate! You don't seriously want to know about my day."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I dunno... You just don't seem the type to want to know about 'people's days.'"

"You got me there."

"Ha, I knew I did."

There was a short silence as John looked inquisitively at Sherlock.

"Why'd you keep looking at me? I mean, as if you're, y'know, _looking_ at me."

"I can't look at you?"

"You know what I mean. Sort of like you're x-raying me. What can you tell?"

He spread his arms out, displaying himself to Sherlock in a jokey gesture.

"I hear you can tell a lot about people from looking at them."

The jokiness was still present in his voice, but an edge of seriousness had joined. He was _genuinely_ interested, Sherlock thought.

"I do my best."

"I'm sure. So, will ya do me?"

Another silence. Sherlock thought about this. John had asked him, but what would he do when Sherlock actually obeyed? Would be like everyone else, think Sherlock was a freak? But John wasn't like that. At least, he hoped not.

_Alright then, you asked for it._

"John Hamish Watson, 14 years of age. Has previously lived in Cyprus. Wants to train to be a doctor, yet wishes to follow in his late father's footsteps and join the army. So most likely an army doctor, then. Your father died when you were...I'd say 8 or 9, but you had no one to turn to as your mother quickly got a new boyfriend and your brother turned to drinking. It is even harder now as he has recently split up with his girlfriend, the last step to him becoming a severe alcoholic. You used to play rugby, and have just recovered from an injury caused while playing. You were injured in the shoulder though you have a limp, meaning the limp is psychosomatic. I'd say that is enough for now."

He waited for the angry outburst, fists clenched. Tiny half moon crescents were slowly embedding themselves into the tender skin of his palm.

"How the bloody hell did you deduce that?"

Sherlock sighed. What must it be like in their silly little brains? Must be_ so_ relaxing.

"Your trunk states the name 'Hamish Watson' in the corner. Going by the age of it, I'd say it was your dads, and of course your middle name _had_ to be your father's. The way you hold yourself shows that someone close to you, your dad, was probably in the military; people tend to subconsciously imitate the people around them after a period of time. You have an instinctive caring nature- doctor then, but you obviously want to follow in your father's footsteps. That's how I got army doctor. You wouldn't be in possession of your father's trunk if he still needed it, so I figured that he had died in battle. It wasn't recently, but recent enough for it to still hurt. Badly."

He paused, looking at John questioningly.

"Go on." The blonde murmured quietly.

"Erm, I figured the stuff about your brother by the state of your phone when you were texting. It's a good one, but has definitely been used. The engraving on the back: 'To Harry, Love Clara xxx' shows that it was previously his and he has given it to you, most likely because he and Clara have broken up. The tiny scratches around the place where you plug in the charger show that he was an alcoholic and every night when he goes to plug it in his hands are shaky due to the drink. You rarely see a drunk's phone without them. Now, the rugby. Obvious from your broad build that you played, but you have a limp; probably from a rugby related injury then. Shot in the dark, that one, but it seems to be right. I knew the limp was psychosomatic because the left half of your body is weighed down, though you try to hold yourself upright most of the time."

He broke off, warily.

The silence was agonizingly long, and it felt like a couple of hours had passed before John finally spoke.

"That... Was amazing."

"You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

Sherlock paused, a silly smile plastering itself across his face before he answered.

"Piss off." He stated simply.

The two boys looked at each other for a second, their eyes locking together. And in the tiniest moment, they shared a secret, happy smile before quickly bursting into raucous laughter, clutching helplessly at their aching chests.

And for the first time in Sherlock's life, he felt as though he _truly_ belonged.


	4. Sherlock Holmes the freak

_AN: Hello again my lovelies, sorry it took me so long to update! The end of this chapter seems to be a good spot to finish things up, y'know, to have it as a shorter story, but I could always continue with more chapters about their school life if you wish. Anyway, reviews are very welcome and I would love it if you could give me ALL of your wonderful feedback. Thanks! –I x_

_Disclaimer: I am not so heartless as to make people wait until __**2013**__ for the next series. Seriously- Moffat, Gatiss, I am ashamed and downright upset with you._

**CHAPTER 4:**

After the laughter had ceased John looked at Sherlock in wonder, as one might look at their hero. "I wasn't just saying that, you know." He breathed, shaking his blonde head in utter amazement. Sherlock couldn't help but notice how John's hair almost seemed to glow as it caught the September sunlight that was seeping through the windows.

"That was just...brilliant, Sherlock. It's com_pletely_ mind-blowing how, how you can just look at something and immediately deduce all that from it!"

He seemed lost for words.

"Did I get anything wrong?"

John paused for the fraction of a second before blinking rapidly and regaining his composure. His voice seemed measured when he spoke, yet the way he answered was clipped and controlled.

"Clara moved out a couple of months ago, partly because of the, erm... _drink_ing habit. I'm saving up to go to medical school and yes, I eventually would like to be an army doctor. I was injured in the shoulder during the Rugby finals, and, and my _Dad_-" John swallowed abruptly before continuing- "was shot 2 months after my 8th birthday."

Sherlock deduced from John's strained tone that he still struggled to speak about his Dad, and he withdrew himself from pointing out this fact purely for the blonde's sake. He decided to go down a different route and ignore it completely.

"Spot on, was I? I didn't expect to get _every_thing right. " He gave a self-assured smirk and John, recovered from his previous thoughts, raised his eyebrows.

"Harry is short for Harriet."

"Harry's your _sister_?" The taller boy spat the word as though it were some sort of disease that he would instantly fall prey to if the word stayed in his mouth for too long.

"Seems like it."

Sherlock completely ignored John; instead deciding to release his anger by picking up a nearby cushion (Thank god it was only a cushion; last time Sherlock made a mistake there was a rather expensive vase sitting in his vicinity) and chucking it violently at the wall. _"Sister!"_

The blonde haired boy chuckled amiably, grabbing some glasses off the counter to save them from Sherlock's warpath. Even in his rage, Sherlock noticed the boy's incredible level of good-humouredness.

He continued on with the throwing and overall destruction of nearby objects, making his mind up to ask John later, but he couldn't help but wonder _what on this earth_ it was that hadn't scared the boy off by now.

Maybe, Sherlock thought, it was just that John Watson was different to other people. Not a difference as in a 'Sherlock type difference,' (God forbid there would ever be _two_ of them) but a difference that wasn't always clear to the untrained eye. A difference that was so subtle not even a genius could see it.

The thing that made John Hamish Watson so different from other people was that he had befriended Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes the genius boy, Sherlock Holmes the freak, Sherlock Holmes the outcast.

Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. A boy _so_ defined by labels and what may have once seemed to be harmless words, that no one even knew him anymore. No one even gave him the slightest chance to prove that maybe, _just_ maybe, he wasn't all they said.

Once, this wouldn't have mattered so much to Sherlock. Possibly because he knew that beneath this falsely constructed exterior lay someone different, someone that he alone knew was there.

But images and labels tend to rub off on people. Subconsciously, Sherlock allowed himself to be moulded and shaped into something else by this godforsaken false identity he had become so accustomed to. This false identity started becoming more and more real, until the mere name; 'Sherlock Holmes the freak,' started to ring true.

He played it up; learning to enjoy the looks of horror mingled with outright dis_gust_ on people's faces as he deduced them, acting out the freak they had unknowingly created. He savoured their expressions- he really was a freak now.

I guess that's prejudice for you.

He had acted the role for John, I mean; he acted it for everyone now. He acted it so often that it had become natural to him.

But why did John stay? Why wasn't he repulsed by the freak that was, and always will be, the mighty Sherlock Holmes? The question played over and over in Sherlock's mind until even _his_ spectacular brain grew weary of it.

It may be something that no one will ever know, but that isn't what is important. What is important is that someone, someone so insignificant as a short, blonde haired 14 year old, gave Sherlock Holmes a chance.

Maybe if he hadn't, things would have turned out a lot differently than they do.

Sherlock pondered over John as he lay in bed that night. He didn't sleep- never did, never would. The unanswered question lay in the depths of his brain, gnawing away at it, piece by bloody piece.

John Watson.

John Watson.

_John Watson._

Why me, John Watson? You could have chosen anyone.

The two boys became great friends after that day, never leaving each other's side. People began to forget what it was like before he had arrived. Sherlock was still 'Sherlock Holmes the freak,' but now he had John, which made it different somehow.

Now it was 'Sherlock Holmes the freak...' _and_ John Watson.

Which, in Sherlock's opinion, was a _thousand_ times better.


	5. The seductive scent of apple shampoo

_AN: Hi everyone, I decided to continue with this story, as I have become a little attached to my mini Sherlock and John. THEY ARE JUST TOO CUTE! ^_^_

_So, I hope you enjoy it! __**Please**__ review as it would mean the world to me and will undoubtedly make me write faster. Promise._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, you would know it if I did. *sniffs*_

The next day, John decides to walk with Sherlock to breakfast. When he tells him this, the boy in question doesn't comment on this new procedure, instead giving him an odd look and carrying on with the frantic mixing of a strange smelling substance that looks worryingly like toenails stewing in milk. An 'experiment,' apparently.

As they walk, a familiar silence settles between the two. Sherlock tries not to notice that John's damp hair fresh from the shower smells faintly of his apple scented shampoo. John struggles to keep his eyes off the stray, coal black curl that has escaped the wrath of the comb and is bobbing up and down excitedly as Sherlock walks.

Neither understand the reason; the_ utter_ significance behind their feelings. The odd, but not entirely unpleasant feeling in their stomachs is passed off as a strange reaction to some dodgy food. How could it be anything else?

Neither have ever felt anything else remotely similar to this before, so they wouldn't be able to define it, anyway.

Both are glad when they reach the canteen; an excuse to distract their brains from the confused thoughts they are trying desperately not to think.

The doors open, and John coughs awkwardly, breaking the silence.

"Right. Well, let's get some breakfast, then..."

Sherlock just nods; a singular, smooth movement. The little black curl bounces gleefully, winking at John with an air of arrogance. The blonde gulps; shaking his head and picking up a bowl in a desperate attempt to silence the unthinkable impulses that are enveloping his senses.

"That'll be a little hard to manoeuvre, won't it?"

John gives a start, shocked.

"Huh?" His insides groan piteously. _Great. Sherlock will really think I'm a simpleton now after that pathetic response._

"That's a knife, Watson. I don't know about you, but don't people tend to eat their cereal with a spoon?"

_Say something. Say anything. _

"You obviously haven't been briefed yet, _Holmes._ Eating your cereal with a knife is _all_ the rage these days. You haven't tried it?" He laughs; the same, carefree laugh that was replaying itself over and over in Sherlock's head the night before, and prays that _'Holmes'_ appreciates the humour. The other response he could choose is to deem John even more of an idiot than before and demand a room change.

"Ah." He makes a little clucking noise in the back of his throat. "No, I should really get onto someone about that. Better get with the trend then, shall we?" He picks up a knife, twiddling it between his pale, slender fingers, and chuckles.

The sound sends shivers down John's spine, though there is no breeze in the rapidly filling canteen.

They move over to a table where an assortment of cereals sit and John fills his bowl with cocoa puffs, dousing them in milk. He notices that Sherlock has abandoned the bowl and quickly tries to mask the look of worry forming on his face.

"Aren't you having anything?" He says it casually but the concern is evident from his forced tone.

"I've told you already, John. My eating habits are _my_ business, and are perfectly logical in the face of science."

"I _know_, Sherlock. But seriously, mate, you've gotta have _something_."

"Why does it concern you so much as to what I eat and what I don't eat? And it's go_ to_, not _gotta."_

"Quit correcting my grammar. And it concerns me that you haven't eaten for god _knows _how long because we're friends, and friends look out for each other."

Sherlock stiffens slightly at the word _friend_. He'd never had a friend before, not a real one, anyway. It seems amazing to him that after just one proper conversation, two people can suddenly become friends. Just like that. As though someone had simply flicked a light switch from mere 'acquaintances,' to 'friends.'

He doesn't reply, but John is used to this by now. He gets up, lanky frame colliding with the top of the table and walks over to the tea station. He presses some buttons and waits for the tea to come out the machine. _Black, two sugars. _

When the tea is done, he walks back to the table. "Happy?"

"No. But it's a start. You need _proper_ food too, as in solids."

"Solids?"

"Yes, _solids_. Solids like, um, I don't know... toast, cereal, muffins?"

"Later. I have my tea now."

John clutches at his hair in mock exasperation and shoots a crooked grin at the pale boy. "Fair enough. But soon, Sherlock."

"Soon it is."

They eat. Well, _John_ eats; munching away at the soggy cocoa puffs as Sherlock sips at his tea elegantly. They make light conversation. Sherlock doesn't see the point in talking if there's nothing of real interest_ to_ talk about, but with John he can make an exception.

All is well. John munches. Sherlock sips. They chat idly.

They are about to leave when the set of double doors open. A tall, greasy haired boy with a pinched face walks in, closely followed by a pack of brainless thugs. They are all guffawing at some (probably dirty) joke the ringleader had just told judging by the satisfied smirk on his drawn face.

'Greasy hair's' eyes swivel around the canteen, finally landing on the table where Sherlock and John sat, and his teeth bare into a malicious grin.

He struts over and leans his hand against the table casually, obviously waiting for the canteen to quieten down a bit so their exchange will be noticed. The pack follow, nudging each other in mindless excitement.

"Well, well, well...If it isn't everyone's favourite freak! Long time no see, _Holmes._"

His voice is nasally and irritating. He spits the word 'Holmes,' in disgust, some small speckles of saliva landing on John's blazer in the process. He wipes them off pointedly.

"I see you've got yourself a little boyfriend. How _nice_ for you."

"Jealous, are we?"

"I wouldn't be jealous of any scum you hang out with_, Holmes."_

"_Oh, I'm sure._ But you're already a little preoccupied with the own people you 'hang out with' at the moment to think about mine, aren't you, Anderson?"

"What are you talking about, freak?"

"Oh, nothing at all. Just don't comment on other people's company if you don't want something back_, Andy._ I'm sure you wouldn't want everyone in here finding out about the girl you've been snogging behind the bins lately, who _just_ happens not to be your girlfriend."

A brief look of fear flutters over Anderson's face. It is hurriedly replaced with his trademark cold sneer, though it is somewhat lacking the usual contempt.

"H-he's bluffing!" He speaks in the same arrogant tone, but there is a small shake in his voice that only Sherlock and John notice.

"You want proof?"

There is a short silence as Anderson struggles to think of a good comeback. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"I'd love to stay and watch you bluff your way into this one, _freak_, but I can't be in your vicinity for too long before breaking out in hives." He smirks, satisfied with the result.

"I always wondered what made you so ugly, Anderson... Up until now I just assumed that your enormous level of stupidity had leaked onto your face. Guess not."

Sherlock takes another casual sip of his tea and stands up. John mirrors his movements closely, glaring at the speechless Anderson.

"I think it's time to go, John. Anderson may need to recover for a while."

"I think we all do," He mutters quietly. They walk away coolly, appearing oblivious to the dozens of pairs of eyes all fixed on them.

John feels like he has grown slightly. He keeps his shoulders back and his head held high as they continue their journey to the door. It seems to be a longer distance than before.

As they reach it, he has to fight a sudden urge to turn around and salute the watching crowd. The only thing that stops him is the fact that he is struggling desperately to try and keep in his laughter... and that would probably ruin the effect slightly.

_AN: It's me again, yeah. Just wanted to say I will give you virtual cookies if you review. Hope that gives you an incentive._

_Over and out_

_-I x_


	6. Just a friend

_AN: Hello again, I'm back! Wow, lucky you- you get two **whole** chapters today! (: It's your reviews, you know, they're like virtual chocolate to me and I am very thankful. This is quite a short burst, Chapter 7 will undoubtedly be longer, but nevertheless I hope you like it. Keep reviewing!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, ok? Don't rub it in._

**CHAPTER 6:**

John waits until the doors bang shut before losing it completely. He collapses onto the rough carpeted floor in a fit of maniacal laughter, clutching weakly at his sides.

Sherlock stares at him curiously, eyebrows raised and mouth quirked up ever so slightly at the sides. His confusedness only seems to further amuse John, who is now rolling around on the floor, seemingly helpless. He can't even remember why he is laughing anymore- something to do with the look on Anderson's face, he reckons- but sometimes once you've started, it is physically im_possible_ to stop.

And now Sherlock has joined him, the impossible blue-green eyes that are usually so blank and vacant shining with mirth. He attempts to pull John up from the floor but the latter is laughing so hard that he can't even stand up, and now they are both down, clutching at each other helplessly.

Even in their giggling, Sherlock is mesmerised by John's laugh. He is mesmerised at how those gorgeous twinkling blue eyes crinkle up at the sides, and how all he wants to do is to get lost in them.

He is mesmerised at how a cute little dimple appears in his rosy cheeks, and how all he wants to do is to run his fingers down it, how he wants to hold John's face in his hands and kiss him all over.

He is mesmerised at how all the surrounding noises seem to ebb away and eventually disappear altogether, until it is only John and him, nothing else in the world except John and him.

And he _knows _that he shouldn't be thinking these ungodly thoughts about another _boy _for Christ's sake,and he bloody _knows _that if John were to ever find out that he would immediately hate him; deem him a freak, a queer, a poof.

And even though he'd been called many of these names before, sometimes even worse, if John were to start, then- well, it'd all be lost.

So he just carries on laughing, even though he can't think of anything less funny than the thoughts currently eating away at his brain. He carries on laughing, even though all he wants to do is cryshout_scream _at the world for being so unfair and judging and fucking cruel all the time.

Little does he know that John is thinking all too similar thoughts, and little does he know that John is torturing himself even _more, _goddamnit.

So they both continue to laugh.

Neither knows when to stop, really, so are glad when a teacher opens the canteen doors, staring at them rather pointedly to move. They do so without complaint, and both boys trudge on up to the dormitory to get their bags.

On the way, they repeat a silent mantra in their heads.

_He's just a friend._

_He's just a friend._

_He's just a friend._

They get their bags and murmur hurried goodbyes, not looking each other in the eyes as they do so. If they were to, maybe they'd notice the mirrored looks of longing reflected in the glassy surfaces, and_ just_ maybe-things would all work out fine.

But they don't. Because Sherlock makes an excuse to go and get something, telling John to _'oh, go_ _ahead without me,' _even though they're both going to the same class. And John nods along robotically, heart sinking a little as he realises Sherlock is far superior to him, why would he ever like me, a short, idiotic little imbecile?

He grits his teeth and walks the majority of the journey alone, before bumping into a pretty blonde girl with sparkly green eyes who _just _happens to be in the same form as him. They talk, and John finds out her name is Sarah Sawyer and her favourite colour is blue and she wants to be a doctor, which is funny, because that's what John wants to be too.

He smiles a little sadly, and decides that he likes the girl. He tries not to notice that her eyes aren't quite as nice as Sherlock's are, or that her hair is straight and not curly.

_Since when did he have a thing for curly haired girls?_

He tells himself that he should fancy her- I mean, she's pretty, she's funny, they share the same interests- and eventually he convinces himself that he does.

The feeling is nice. _This is nice,_ he tells himself. But that's all. All it is is _nice._ Not anything more. He doesn't feel the longing or the heartfelt passion he did for Sherlock .

_But that doesn't matter_, John thinks, _because I am __**straight, **__and anyway, Sherlock would never like me back._

So he and Sarah exchange numbers, and she gives a flirtatious little giggle, tossing her hair before entering into the classroom.

And so the second day at John's new school begins; and in some ways it feels like he has just started, and in others, it feels like he has been there an age.

_AN: Yes… I know I'm very mean to my characters and don't let them stay happy for long, but I find it reeeally hard to write happy. If you review to say what you prefer (angst-y, funny, etc) then I'll obey. Promisee._

_Over and out._

_-I x_


	7. Not a daytime police drama, Sherlock

_AN: Hi! :) New chapter for you, not much plot but we're getting to it- please be patient with me! Thanks for all the wonderful reviews and please keep 'em coming. Also, if you have any preferences to what kind of stuff you prefer (angst, fluff, crack etc) I will obey without complaint. No slash, though. Sorry but I am hopeless at it and honestly, I don't want my story to have it. :) Without further ado, ENJOY!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, it is property of the legend that was and ever will be Arthur Conan Doyle, and of course that heartless BBC. _

**CHAPTER 7:**

Sherlock hears the door to 221B slam shut and closes his eyes, counting to 200 in his head. Each steadily increasing number calms him. His heavy, panting breaths slow down and his flushed cheeks return to their usual alabaster hue.

He's scaring himself. What was this- why was he letting his body overcome him? This just doesn't _happen _to Sherlock, whose god like body, quite like his self esteem, is immune to normal human weaknesses.

He takes a couple of deliberate strides over to the bathroom and looks himself up and down in the smeary mirror. He grimaces at what his reflection, quickly turning on the tap and splashing ice cold water over his face.

_Take deep, calm breaths. Inhale, exhale. _

He wipes his dripping face with a fluffy white towel and braces himself. Looking into the mirror once more, he sets his face into the emotionless mask everyone is so accustomed to. His body has betrayed him with those pitiful emotions already today, and he can't let that happen again.

By now, John would be in the Year 7 section of dormitories; the 100 block. If he put a pace on, he might even bump into that gaggle of idiotic girls in their form that hovered around there, attempting to disconcert the 'midgets.'

What were their names again? Oh yeah: it was that insufferable Sally Donovan and her cronies- Sarah Sawyer, Mary Morstan and Anthea Brown. (Though he doubted that was her real name-those girls _did_ like to mess with people's brains...)

It was safe to leave now. When he next saw John in registration, he would have returned to the level headed, intelligent Sherlock everyone knows and loathes instead of this foolish, disoriented one that was wreaking havoc over his carefully kept persona.

He would treat John kindly. They were friends now- it was common courtesy, wasn't it? The thing he wouldn't do was allow impulse to take hold of his senses. As soon as he felt himself thinking vulgar thoughts; he would recite the Periodic Table, or count to 100 in Croatian, or, or- compose violin sonatas for god's sake!

Anything to stop this. He would do anything. What he really needs is a good case to keep his mind off other... distractions.

Sherlock even considers calling Mycroft but that was definitely a last resort. He'd only just seen him two days ago and couldn't bear to listen to that pompous, self righteous tone he had just endured 6 dreary weeks of.

Time to go. John would be nearing the form room by now, assuming there hadn't been any obstacles obstructing his way, no knife-wielding serial killers waiting to pounce on unsuspecting school children as they made their way to class.

But of course there wouldn't. _This is a school, Sherlock, not a bloody daytime TV police drama. Stop worrying. Caring isn't an advantage. _

He grabs his satchel and makes his way out the door, clenching his jaw as he catches a sudden whiff of apple.

* * *

John sits at his desk, eyes closed and head in hands. He tries to think about the lessons he'll be having later today and if they'll be hard or not. He tries to think about the poster he saw for football triouts next Saturday, wondering if he could ever find the nerve to go. He tries to think about Sarah and that flirtatious little giggle she made and whether that even means anything- and _should I be excited about this_?

Basically, he tries to think about anything in the world but Sherlock; Sherlock with those ridiculously sharp cheekbones, those penetrating, impossible blu-

_Ha._ Like that'll work. Try _not_ to think of something and then you'll be thinking about not thinking about it for the rest of the day. Which kind of contradicts the whole process, really.

He is shaken from his reverie as the classroom door opens dramatically, and who else could it be but the man himself; Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. The rowdy chatter of the class dies down in an instant as they attempt to stare down the boy in the doorway.

Sherlock really does like his extravagant entrances- John thinks to himself. After raising his eyebrows at the watching class, the pale boy spots his friend in the corner of the room and gives a half smile, nodding his dark head in greeting.

John returns the gesture, mouth twitching up at the corner despite himself. Sherlock walks over to him, collapsing in the chair beside John's own. They smile in greeting, not needing words.

A few minutes later, the teacher arrives; her 'back to school' optimism a little fainter than it had been yesterday. She beams at the class nevertheless, spreading her wobbly arms out theatrically to speak to them at large.

"Well, I must say I'm glad to see you've all survived your first day!" She winks, chuckling at her own pathetic attempt at a joke; looking a little put out at the lack of enthusiam the form give in response.

"Um, alright then class," She begins brightly, soon becoming flustered as she hurriedly starts sorting through a mountain of papers on her desk. "Now _where_ did I put that blasted thing..." She was definitely annoyed now, her merry countencance slipping further and further out of reach. The rummaging continues for a while, before it seems Sherlock has had just about enough- and decides to enlighten her.

"Top left hand drawer, miss."

A few people snicker.

She hesitates slightly before opening the said drawer, seemingly bracing herself for a trick or immature prank. After a second of wary inspection, the middle aged teacher flashes a beaming smile in Sherlock's direction as she spots the missing register. He curls up his nose, clearly unimpressed at her lack of observation skills.

"Seems like I must have left my brain at home this morning! I must thank you, Mr Holmes. Where _would_ I be without your expert guidance?"

"Not far, I assume." He mutters darkly, and John snorts. The teacher frowns at him, pencilled on eyebrows furrowing in irritation.

"Is there a joke you would like to share with us, Mr Watson?"

John looks startled, cheeks going crimson as he tries to form words.

"Erm, no m-miss. No joke."

"Good. Now please be quiet so we can get on with the register."

"Yes, miss. Very good, miss" The class laugh at the clipped, military-like way he addresses the teacher. Sherlock is half expecting him to salute her, but instead he decides on turning to his friend and hissing: "Oi. Warn me before you crack a joke. I have a strong tendency to laugh at anything, however funny or un-funny it may be."

"That would completely ruin the aspect of it if I were to warn you. And besides, I wasn't making a joke."

John shakes his head, rolling his eyes at his impossible friend.

"Oh, and John?"

"Mm?"

"Un-funny isn't a word."

"Piss off."

* * *

_AN: Hope you liked it guys! The holidays are coming up soon so you'll have a lot more chapters then without any doubt. Please R&R! :)_

_Over and out._

_-I x_


	8. Not in real life

_AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted or favourited my story- you're all so kind. :) Hope you like this chapter- finally some plot! Please review, it makes little Sherlock happy. (and he isn't usually happy, except with John, of course) BYE FOR NOW._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor I am earning money from writing this. _

* * *

**CHAPTER 8:**

A relaxed chatter has fallen across the classroom. The teacher has long ago scrapped the idea of ever having silence during registration; instead leaving the students to do what they like- in moderation, of course.

There are 10 minutes until the bell, and Sherlock is reading a thick tome on advanced forensic science. John gazes into space, attempting to keep up the 'just think about anything except Sherlock' challenge, though it is admittedly quite impossible when the boy himself is lounging next to John; propped up feet occassionally brushing against the blonde's leg. Keeping the mentioned leg from tensing whenever this occurs is also a deed John is struggling to keep up.

Suddenly, an unnatural static sound fills the air around them. People sit up, looking around them for the source of the irritating noise. A few turn towards Sherlock, who has stopped reading his book and jerks his head towards a speaker balanced above the blackboard.

For a brief moment, the sound disperses into nothing; before a high pitched, headache inducing ringing fills the air once again. People clutch their ears in annoyance- glaring at the speaker, which has now started crackling. It sounds almost as though someone on the other side is scrunching up one of those boiled sweet wrappers over and over, for the sole purpose of aggravating everyone on the receiving end.

Now the hoarse, scratchy voice of the school's strict headmaster echoes into the room. From his strained tone, Sherlock can tell he has been having just a _little bit of trouble_ working the intercom, and he can almost picture the man gritting his teeth.

"Will all students and teachers please report to the main assembly hall as soon as possible," the tinny voice echoes. Sherlock's eyebrows raise slightly, and John looks at him questioningly. He shrugs, frowning as the voice pipes up again.

"All lessons are cancelled until further notice. That will be all." The fuzzy intercom turns off without warning, and the room is thrown into a deafening silence as everyone contemplates what they've just heard.

Mrs Thompson seems as confused as the rest of them. She tries to keep her face neutral as she rises from her seat, ordering the class to line up 'with_out_ speaking, please.' Beneath the faked mask of calm, Sherlock notices a line of worry forming on her brow.

Everyone rushes up from their seats, talking excitedly; the earlier silence proving to be momentary. John sprints to join them, securing a place next to Sarah. Even though he beckons toward Sherlock to join them, the pale boy feels a seed of jealousy entwine itself round his newly acquired heart.

The teacher tries desperately to hush the chatting class. They ignore her as though she is a mere fly buzzing around their heads. As she opens the door, kids jostle eachother in an attempt to get to the front. Whispers travel from student to student- _what has happened? _Dozens of different hair brained theories shoot back and forth between them.

Sherlock doesn't participate with the excitable guessing game; much to the annoyance of the form. They may hate him, he may be the _freak_ in their eyes, but not even they can deny his spectacular deduction skills.

The pale boy has already created about half a dozen solutions in his head, but that is where they shall stay for the time being at least. He is too busy watching that ditzy Sarah gradually shift closer and closer to John every second to bother sharing his thoughts with the imbeciles in his class.

They walk to the main hall in a matter of minutes. Half the school is already seated; and it is blatantly obvious that even the older, 'too cool to care' students are buzzing with an expectant excitement assemblies don't usually hold.

It isn't long before the room is filled. The last class has barely sat down before the headmaster is striding importantly onto a raised platform at the front of the room.

An anticipated hush falls as they await the news. It is a well known fact that the headmaster isn't one for prolonging things. He gets straight to the point, no beating about the bush.

There is no need for a microphone. Mr Houlder's deep, gravelly voice echoes into the ears of every student, every teacher, every nook and cranny hidden in the room. There is no emotion in his voice as he speaks. His eyes are blank, yet Sherlock can see his large hands shaking at his sides.

"A student has been murdered."

If the situation had been any different, Sherlock may have laughed at their headteacher's remarkable bluntness.

It is said in an instant, though it feels like several long hours before the news sinks in. Everyone's initial thought is a disbelieving -_what?- _as though for some ridiculous reason the headmaster was cracking a sick joke on them. This kind of thing happens on those bad TV dramas, not in real life, not _here. _

No one speaks. The voice of what has not yet been told is deafening.

So they wait.

"Stephenie Read was found in her dormitory half an hour ago. She was lying on her bed with multiple stab wounds to the heart. There was no evidence of a break in. Her room-mate has provided evidence that she had spoken to Stephenie in the morning, and had gone to breakfast without her. According to her, she was acting no different to usual."

The awful silence is broken as a dark haired girl sat in the back row promptly bursts into tears. A teacher stands up, wordlessly leading her out of the room. Her face is deathly pale.

"Lessons are cancelled until further notice as the police need to investigate the scene of the crime- and what they _don't_ need are students milling about everywhere causing havoc." He attempts a light hearted joke and it falls flat on it's face.

The grave voice is back. "You are to report to your dormitories. You are not to leave them without the supervision of a teacher. You will be collected at meal times."

No response.

"Stephenie was a much loved student, and had many doting friends. She will be sorely missed." His emotionless mask of a face vanishes for a second, replaced with one of pain, worry and grief.

"You are free to go." It seems the vacant, emotionless facade has toppled. It is with a strangled whisper he utters these words.

No one speaks for a second. Then, as though remembering their job, a couple of teachers rise from their seats. The world returns; everything comes back into focus as students are ushered out of the hall.

Sherlock stands up along with his form. Many look like they feel sick, others simply shell shocked and unresponsive. _Murder._ The word is strange, one used for books or movies or TV shows.

He isn't repulsed by the thought of it. Nor is he scared, nor saddened, nor feel any other normal human responses. He is excited.

_Finally._ Something _interesting_, something _unexpected._ Data floods his rapidly moving brain. _Stephenie Read. 14 years old; a year 10. Popular, according to the headteacher, though he could have just been saying that out of respect. Played the lead in last year's school production-sang a solo. Pretty, but not obviously so._

That is all he knows. Not enough information to make logical assumptions. He can think what he likes but it needs to be based on fact, not a deduction moulded to fit circumstances he barely knows anything about. He needes data, and quick.

A visit to the scene of the crime will do _just_ the trick.

* * *

_AN: Yay- we have plot! Please review... it brings me deep happiness._

_over and out_

_-I x_


	9. Fear is a funny feeling

_AN: Hello there- 'nother chapter for you to (hopefully) enjoy! Thanks again for new reviewers, favourite-ers and alert-ers. :) Please keep it up! I'm not so proud of this chapter but I hope it's alright. BYE._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, cleverclogs._

* * *

**CHAPTER 9:**

"You're planning something, aren't you?"

Even in the midst of his restless thinking, re-thinking, and re-thinking again, Sherlock finds the time to raise a mocking eyebrow at John. _Man, this boy was quick._

"What would ever give you that idea?"

"Oh, come on mate! It's obvious- you're all...I don't know... like, out of it. You just become completely oblivious to everything around you; it's like it all vanishes in a second so you can tune into your own thoughts. Your eyes go all narrow and glaze over-it's weird how you do it. How you can just suddenly relocate somewhere and ignore the rest of the world...y'know?" He cuts off, flushing slightly at the quelling look Sherlock gives him.

"I didn't realise I was so easy to read."

"Better not let your guard down so often, then." John smirks, all of a sudden looking very Sherlock-like in his mannerisms. "You going to tell me what it is you're planning, then?"

There is a pause.

His voice is even lower than normal as he replies. "If you swear not to tell anyone." _What? No, you can't tell anyone! What the hell are you doing, idiot?_

John's face becomes serious. "I swear."

_Don't say anything. Make something up, he can't know what you're doing! _"I'm...well, I'm going to sneak into the dorm of that girl, y'know, the one that was murdered? I need to see the crime scene before the police come and contaminate it. That'll make it much harder to read, and I need a clear view on who did it." _Damnit, Sherlock, what'd you do that for?_

John is incredulous. "What the hell? You can't do that, Sherlock, you'll get expelled!"

"I'm willing to take that risk."

"Are you serious? You could get arrested...or, or put under suspicion for murdering her!"

"I told you already. I'm willing to take that risk."

There is a silence as John and Sherlock try to stare eachother out. Both of them know without any doubt that Sherlock is going to win, but John doesn't let this get him down. And perhaps that's why Sherlock likes him so much; so much more than anyone else he has ever come across before- because he actually puts up a good fight.

Then John does something neither of them are expecting; least of all the boy himself. "Well...if you _do_ go, then... then _I'm_ coming with you." There is an air of defiance as he says this. It's not a question; it's a statement. A statement that neither really saw coming.

"No you're not."

"And why is that, then?" John raises his eyebrows. He can be quite stubborn when he wants to, and he is rather enjoying the looks of utter shock that are forming on Sherlock's usually emotionless face. "Because I might get expelled? Or arrested? Or even, _god forbid_, I could be accused of murdering her? 'Cause you know, Sherlock, I'm willing to take that risk."

Sherlock can tell John isn't planning on backing down anytime soon, and he experiences yet another strange, new emotion for what must be the umpteenth time in the past couple of days. _Fear_. Proper, stomach clenching fear. Not the usual buzz of adrenaline mixed with a dizzying sense of _oh god what have I just done?_ It's incredible how one boy can introduce such pitiful emotions in such a short space of time. They must be two of the worst things that he has ever felt in his whole 14 years of existence... not that Sherlock is really one for _feeling_, though.

"John." He swallows before continuing. "John. You- you don't understand. I'm not going to bring you into this! It's dangerous." He is pleading now._ Please, John. This isn't a game, for god's sake._

"I know, Sherlock. And that's why you can't go alone. I'm not going to let you go over there and risk all of that _by yourself! _I think that would make me some hideous excuse for a friend if I let you do that." He laughs, but the sound comes out bitter and forced.

That name again. _Friend. _The words come out of Sherlock's mouth before he can stop them.

"Alright."

John's eyes fill with relief, and he runs a hand through his sandy hair. The ever present smell of apple catches in the air around them. _Boy, that stuff is strong,_ is all Sherlock can think.

He speaks again. "But _I_ have to plan it. And you do as you're told, alright? You can only come if you promise not to get in the way."

The blonde laughs. "I'm not en_tirely_ useless, you know!" But he sees the look on Sherlock's face and his smile drops. "OK. I guess I can agree to that."

They look at eachother for a bit, then suddenly Sherlock is muttering something so fast and so quiet that John struggles to understand. It sounds a bit like; "I 'no you're n't u'eless," and his eyes are so sincere and pained that John wants to cry.

Then Sherlock hangs his head, looking almost like a dog who has just been told off by it's owner; and the cold facade is back. The brief moment of humanity is gone.

His brain swings back into action. A plan forms; free of flaws. He imagines diversions and finds ways to stop them- it's laughable how easy this is turning out to be. His mind is moving so quickly that all thoughts of John disperse into nothing.

All he needs to do is find a way of getting to the science labs, where a certain Molly Hooper would most definitely be hiding away. Molly Hooper, the roommate of what was once Stephenie Read. Molly Hooper, who had had a silly schoolgirl crush on Sherlock since the day they were put together in science club. He had only gone once; the professor had made it quite clear that he wasn't welcome after his first unsuccessful visit that had ended with an angry teacher, a spilt bottle of sulphuric acid and a class of annoyed teenagers. But that was irrelevant.

This could not be more perfect. It's almost as if the situation has been created for _him _specifically to solve! He ignores the little nagging sensation in the back of his brain telling him that maybe this was just a little _too_ easy. He figures that killers are just losing their touch these days. No imagination, no pre-planning. Not that he was complaining. At least they were actually _do_ing something.

The game, Sherlock, is most definitely on.

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_AN: I hope this was ok for you. Please tell me if Sherlock or John were a little OOC in this chapter; its just I really struggled to write it. Next update will be quicker, I PROMISE. HAPPY EASTER!_

_over and out_

_-I x_


	10. Little Miss Hooper

_A.N. I cannot express how sorry I am for the lateness of this...just with school starting and stuff things have been really hectic. I hope that this chapter makes up for it and, again, I implore you to read, favourite, alert- and most of all-review! They mean so so much to me and defnitely make me write faster. They're virtual chocolate, you know. So, enough of the chit-chat...to the story!_

_Disclaimer: John and Sherlock haven't kissed yet so I think it's fair to say I don't own it. It's rights belong to the BBC and ACD._

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**CHAPTER 10**_**:**_

Molly Hooper pushes her mop of chestnut hair out of her eyes and sniffs. She won't look in the mirror because she knows what she'll see will be frankly repulsive. Red, bloodshot eyes and a blotchy, swollen face. _Eurgh._ Thank god the headmaster told everyone they were to stay in their dorms for now. Except her, of course. She was an exception- being Stephanie's roommate and all.

Molly and Stephanie weren't friends; not by any means. Molly is one of those more quiet, studious girls- always with her nose in a textbook or scribbling down ideas in a notepad. The teacher's dote on her and you can see why, really. And then there's _Stephanie._ Stephanie is- sorry _was_- a different matter altogether. The headmaster wasn't lying when he said she was popular. There wasn't a moment when she wasn't surrounded by giggling clones of herself, hanging off her every word.

It annoyed Molly, to be honest. Steph was always bringing girls back to their dorm where they'd stay until the early hours of the morning, screeching like banshees when they'd have to sneak back to their own rooms. And the mess they'd make—it was disgusting. Molly was a very tidy person and waking up in the morning to find used waxing strips, false eyelashes and god knows what else on the floor was _not _something she particularly enjoyed.

But that didn't erase the fact that it had been _Molly _to come in and find her own roommate lying dead with all too fresh blood seeping into the carpet, it didn't erase the fact that Steph had been _murdered _for god's sake; right in her own dorm!

I think it's fair to say that Molly was allowed to have a bit of a cry- even if her and Stephanie hadn't been the _best_ of friends.

The lonely girl rolls up the sleeves of her white lab coat and adjusts the goggles on her freckled nose. Mr Houlder had suggested she do something to keep her mind off..._other_ things- and what was better than science? The logic of it was calming. The pure, irreversible facts kept her mind off the complications of real life, and what was more complicated than her roommate's death?

She slips into a haze of science and equations and formulae; not immediately noticing when the door is pushed open and a dark figure enters the laboratory. In fact, she wouldn't have noticed at all if the mentioned figure hadn't given a low cough to state their presence in the room. Molly gives a start, knocking over a measuring glass with the overhanging sleeve of her labcoat. In her anxiousness to clean it up, she doesn't comprehend who exactly caused the breakage in the first place.

Well, not until he comes over to where she stands; brushing her hands away gently with his own pale ones and gazing at her with those intense, impossible eyes that could melt the heart of the devil himself. She definitely notices then. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is reminding herself that this is Sherlock Holmes, the dysfunctional genius boy from Year 10; but this far away thought is overridden with the fact that they are standing so close she can smell the faint scent of mint on his breath.

"Molly Hooper." The words come out a low rumble, deep inside his throat. Molly thinks that if her heart were beating any faster they would both surely be able to hear it over the deafening silence of the room. She tries to think straight- act casual, flirtatious even, but the sight of his sooty black eyelashes framing those even more god-like eyes is dizzying to say the least.

"Sherlock Holmes." She had wanted it to sound confident, but her voice came out high pitched and vulnreable. She feels warm blood rush into her face and even though she can't see it, she knows her cheeks will have gone a dark red, such a contrast to the marble white features of the boy opposite her.

"You should really be more careful, you know." He turns suddenly, sweeping the remnants of the broken measuring beaker into a paper towel in one smooth movement.

Molly lets out a strangled squeak, unable to form coherent words. Sherlock has his back to her, but on hearing the noise, allows a tiny smirk to tug at his cupid bow lips. "But, then again, I can't blame you. What with Steph and all...this _murder_ stuff." His eyes are wide as he turns to face her, full of artificial worry for the all too trusting girl.

She doesn't notice, of course. Swallowing hard, she plucks up the courage to speak. "Yeah. W-we weren't always the best of friends but I-I just can't believe she's gone!" The girl's eyes fill with fresh tears.

Sherlock grazes a slender finger over the base of her hand, and she shivers slightly. "It's alright, Molly. It must be rough for you."

His voice is like caramel, she thinks. The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. "Sherlock-I know you don't have to but I-I just don't think I can go back there by myself an-and..." She trails off, looking stricken. What would make her say that? His voice; it was almost bewitching; enchanting her into a mindless frenzy.

He gives a half smile, and runs a hand through his raven black curls. "Of course, Molly. Of course I don't mind going with you! I can't comprehend how you must be feeling right now." She looks at him, eyes round and disbelieving and mouth open in a perfect 'o'of surprise. "Oh..." He gives an embarassed cough. "Well, if that's not what you meant..." Sherlock hangs his head looking sheepish. He turns to leave, before Molly grabs the sleeve of his dark coat.

"_No!_ I mean...erm, no- that is what I meant. I would love it if you could come, Sherlock." She gives a giddy smile, hoping not to look too foolish.

There is a small pause as his mouth turns up at the corners, all previous embarassment gone. "Off we go then, Miss Hooper. After you." He holds out an arm and gives a gentleman-ly bow. She positively squeals with excitement and utter disbelief, following him out of the room and trying, not com_pletely_ in vain, not to skip.

_Stage 1- Complete._

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_A.N. Don't forget to review, readers!_

_over and out._

_-Izzie x_


	11. Small talk and deductions

_A.N. Howdy. As ever, I apologise for my awful updating; I know I promise everytime to be quicker but this time I have a real life excuse! My Sherlock S1 and S2 dvds came last week and I had this mini panic attack and watched them all and marvelled at how adorable Benny's face is and basically fangirled all over again :) *squee* So, here's a new chapter for y'all! I reaaally hope you like it as things are getting a bit more exciting and we're getting some plot at last! Thanks for all the new reviews, favourites and alerts and keep it up guys! I am praying to Godtiss you will review as it will make me happier than you can imagine ^-^ _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock *sniffles* I am not a heartless troll intent on bringing misery into your life, so I think it's fair to say I am not Moffat or Gatiss either. Nor am I legendary enough to be Arthur Conan Doyle._

* * *

The moment the door is pushed open, it is as though Molly is no longer there. She was, to put it lightly, just a _little bit_ put out when he had requested they stop for someone extremely important going by the name of 'John,' and all her former excitement at none other than Sherlock Holmes accompanying her to her dorm-_alone_-has vanished. If she took all her clothes off there and then and danced a jig around the bedroom she doubt he'd even look up. However, this John boy might so she decided against this action for the time being.

"Uhm, Sherlock?" She mumbles hesitantly, stepping towards the tall boy stood in front of her. He barely graces her with a glance as he replies; "Not now please, Molly. I'd prefer if we kept the pointless chatter to a minimum as I take a look around." With this he strides away from the flushing girl, the tails of his long coat swooping behind him dramatically. In a couple of seconds he is crouching on the floor beside Steph's old bed, seemingly lost in his thoughts. It's all Molly can do not to pick up a shovel, dig a pit in the floor and crawl away to a land of never ending blackness. So what if it's a bit dramatic? She'd do anything right now to escape this feel of gradually increasing humiliation fall upon her.

She hangs her auburn head in an attempt to hide her burning cheeks; sadly with no avail. The John boy notices her embarassment and gives an apologetic smile. "Try not to take it personally, Molly." His voice is practically high pitched in comparison to the deep baritone of one Sherlock Holmes. "He does it to everyone."

"I've noticed." She manages a shaky smile.

"You'll get used to it in the end," he chuckles, glancing over to Sherlock, who is apparently oblivious to their conversation. "He's a bit full of himself, if you ask me. Thinks he can treat people how he likes just 'cause he's cleverer than them." An amused smile tells her he's teasing. "Fancies himself a bit of a detective, as well. He reckons he can solve this whole murder business in a flash, well- he probably can, but he doesn't seem to comprehend the fact that kids aren't technically allowed in crime scenes. Or the fact that it's a murder and he shouldn't really be feeling this excited about it."

"I know- it's horrific, isn't it?"

"Bloody awful, if you ask me. Only the second day at my new school and already we're being called into assembly to be told that someone's been murdered, for god's sake!" He gives a grim smile. "Guess I can't complain about boredom, though."

"Doesn't really leave a good first impression on the school, does it?"

"Not particularly. Must've been worse for you though. You found the body, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did. Had to literally stop myself from vomiting so I could call the house mistress. I'm used to dead bodies, though. Grew up around them- my Dad works in a morgue you see."

"Still must've been horrible."

"Believe me, it was."

The conversation seems to dry up at this point. There is an uncomfortable silence as they look at eachother, willing the other one to say something. Thankfully, Sherlock chooses now to look up from his close examination of the carpet and speak. "John, we're done here. The police have visited, obviously, meaning they've gone and contaminated all the vital evidence, but I reckon I have enough for now."

"Sherlock- we've barely been here five minutes! How can you have found _any_thing out?"

"It took me less than 30 seconds to figure out that your father died when you were 8 or 9, that your sister has submitted to the bottle, that you were injured while playing rugby and have a- almost fully healed, might I add- psychosomatic limp. I don't think it would take me too long to understand the basics of what has happened here." He gives one of those self satisified smirks John has grown to loathe in their short time of knowing eachother.

"Right then, Einstein. What have you deduced?"

"Stephanie Read- a pampered little Daddy's girl with not a brain cell to name and a horde of giggling friends. Had quite a few boyfriends in her time, but her most recent pick was definitely the oldest she's ever gone for. He certainly has something to do with the case, though I _highly_ doubt he was the perpetrator; people like that don't have the brains or skill to pull off a successful murder. No, I think she ended it with him and he got a little bit angry-wanted some revenge. Things went a little bit too far, though, and what happened then? Dead Stephanie. Now, the boyfriend in question is about 18 I'd say, give or take a year, blonde hair, tall, and works someplace in town. One of the fastfood places is my bet. But why did she finish it with him? He could have been cheating but then why would he want revenge?- no, she ended it for something else. She denied him what he wanted and he got violent. She left and you all know what happens next. But, ladies and gentlemen, what could Stephanie have denied him that made him so angry? What does an 18 year old boy want the most from his younger girlfriend? Sex. I reckon that's enough to be going on with for now, don't you think?"

_Holy shit, doesn't that guy ever take a breath? "_Oh. Well, uhm, good work then, I guess. There's no use asking how you worked it out, is there? No doubt you can smell his cologne on the duvet or there's a speck of dirt on the windowsill that shows what side of town he's from."

"A suprisingly ample deduction, John."

He ignores him. "Next step is finding the boyfriend, right?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

"_No_ need for the sarcasm, _Holmes_."

"I assure you there was no intention of such an object."

They hold eachother's gaze for a second too long. John coughs awkwardly, breaking the silence, and Sherlock turns to Molly with an artificial smile plastered across his face. "I give you my greatest thanks, Miss Hooper. This visit has been of much help to me. Might see you again. Unlikely." He gives a short nod of his head (the curl from earlier doesn't seem to want to come out for her, though...) and opens the door. "John, let's go. We have a boyfriend to find."

"Can we have a break first, Sherlock? For all you know the police could have found him!"

"Doubtful. They wouldn't be able to deduce she had a boyfriend if he was standing right in front of them wearing nothing but a chicken suit and a feather boa. The force just aren't what they used to be."

"I'm sure they're not, Sherlock. But maybe they talked to a couple of her friends and _they_ told the police she had one?"

"She wouldn't have told her friends. Would've wanted it to be kept a secret, more 'mysterious' that way. A secret, older boyfriend. How _perf_ectly exhilirating."

"Shut up, you prick."

"I can only hope that that is a friendly term, John."

"Hope away, I can tell you that it's not."

It takes a second before they realise they are still standing in the open doorway of the dormitory. Molly is staring at them, eyes flicking between the two with a sort of confused anticipation, as though waiting for something to happen.

"Shall, we go, John?"

"Oh- er, right! Yes, let's go. I want lunch before we go hunting this infamous boyfriend, though."

Sherlock sighs loudly. "Lunch. Another of those mundane, human inventions with no point but to slow things down."

They are walking down the hallway now. "You know for a genius, Sherlock, you can be ridiculously idiotic sometimes. Food keeps you alive, believe it or not."

"I am injured by that insult, John. And yes, food _does_ keep you alive, but it can keep you alive if you only eat it twice a week, too. Not _three times a day_ like you're supposed to. All that does is waste time and make you fat." He seems happy with this statement and gives that annoying little smirk John can't bear but kind of loves at the same time.

"Ever the genius, Sherlock. Ever the genius."

* * *

_A.N. Review, fellow warriors. REVIEEEWWWWW. You owe me a review, Sherlockians. U.._

_*disappears*_

_-sidenote- Uhm, I was thinking-should I go back and change their age? It's just I kinda (well, more than 'kinda') want them to get into a relationship but I'm a thinkin' that Year 8 is a leetle young to be up to all those... shenanigans :) Agree? Disagree? Feel nothing? _


	12. The yellow slip of paper

_A/N: Bonjour and all that. I'm becoming very inconsistent with my updating, aren't I? Blame Tumblr. Anyway; new chapter for you to enjoy. Thanks for everyone who reviewed, alerted, favourited, and hell- even read!- I cannot express my happiness. Oh, and I went back and changed it so they are now in Year 10 and it is a little more appropriate for them to be...yeah. Virtual cookies for anyone who reviews!_

_Disclaimer: Not a hair on his beautiful head._

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CHAPTER 12:

"You're going to have to eat something, y'know." John gives Sherlock a stern look, pointing a single, tanned finger towards a pile of mustard yellow dinner trays. The Look is so strict and deadly serious that it is hard not to give in straight away, but this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about, and Sherlock doesn't ever give in, not for anyone. Not _even_ for John Watson. The pale boy attempts to return The Look, but it doesn't have the same effect and really he isn't trying all that hard. It takes a couple of seconds before he finally gives in, and as he does so The Look fades slightly, to be replaced with a more amiable look that doesn't deserve a capital letter at all.

Sherlock allows one of the sour-faced dinner ladies to ladle a steaming portion of what _looks_ like chicken casserole onto his tray, wrinkling his nose up in disgust. "Who _eats_ this muck?" He snorts, slamming a bread roll on top of it with a little more force than is needed, considering it is, after all, only a bread roll.

"_You_ do, Sherlock. _You_ eat this 'muck.' " John takes a roll himself, tearing a chunk of it out with his teeth as though to demonstrate that the little bread roll wasn't about to poison him. They find an empty table and sit down. Sherlock is still buzzing from the newly discovered clues on the Stephanie case, and it is obvious all he wants to do is get up and do something, do _anything. _Well, anything other than the mundane task of _eating lunch_, for god's sake. John wonders why the pale boy doesn't complain. He's just sitting there, obviously having some difficulty restraining himself from moaning. John may not be a genius in the science of deduction, but he sure can tell that Sherlock isn't making the most of this time to have a little rest from the case.

John stands up, sighing, and Sherlock looks at him with expression of confusion etched upon his face. Which is an odd experience for both boys, as this is not an expression used to gracing such a perfectly sculpted face such as Sherlock's.

"Where are you going?" _John?_

"Oh, _come on_, Sherlock. We're going to town to find evil killer boyfriend!"

A short pause.

"Really?" His voice is quiet, even quieter than usual.

"Really. You can't expect me not to have noticed you nearly wetting yourself over there in an attempt not to say something!" He gives a crooked grin that makes Sherlock's insides go all funny, and it takes a second for him to reply.

"Thank you, John."

An abundance of different music teachers, _count_less distant uncles, Mummy _and_ Mycroft all tried their absolute best to make Sherlock Holmes say _thank you._ But all it really took, in the end, was a small, blonde haired boy called John Watson.

* * *

"But Miss, in all due respect, that is completely unfair!"

"You know, Sherlock, even if you say 'in all due respect,' it doesn't erase the fact that you're being extremely rude. And it is not '_unfair,_' we can't let you leave school property when a student has just been murdered! I'm sorry, but you'll just have to go back to your dorm until this whole matter settles over."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. This isn't a good sign. John can see him looking the teacher up and down, and to anyone else this wouldn't be seen as something bad, hell, they probably wouldn't even notice it. But spending time with a genius doesn't leave you completely oblivious, no- it teaches you to really _observe_ people. And John knows exactly what he's doing. _Deducing._ And there's nothing really more dangerous than that.

The pale boy's steely eyes glint maliciously as he spots something. John braces himself for the worst, hoping against hope that he doesn't know Sherlock as well as he thinks he does.

"All right, Miss." John breathes a heavy sigh of relief. It is said in an extremely sullen tone that only the said boy can pull off- but he guesses he can make an exception for Sherlock's _tone of voice,_ seeing as he hasn't actually said anything that bad.

_Touch wood._

They are halfway out the door when Sherlock turns. "Oh, and Miss? Just wanted to say congratulations. I'm sure your husband will be thrilled about the new baby! Shame it isn't _strictly_ his...but I'm sure a drop or two of alcohol will soften the blow. I mean it's not everyday your wife is having an affair with the P.E. teacher."

A nod of his dark head and he is gone, leaving John standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging open like some slow-witted puffer fish. A quick glance at the teacher tells him that he should _probably_ get the hell out right this second, and who is John to disobey instructions? He is out of the door in a flash.

His exasperation at Sherlock is soon to come, but for now he is feeling more awe-struck than annoyed. That bloody boy. He'll be the death of John.

At least one good thing has come out of their not being allowed to go into town. John can't remember a time when he has felt more exhausted, and he feels a burning urge to sit down with a hot mug of tea, some jam sandwiches and a good book.

Yeah, 'cause that's likely. Signing up to be friends with Sherlock Holmes means you have to sacrifice a few things, and eating, sleeping and rest are only a few of them.

* * *

One week passes, then another.

The back to school glow quickly burns out, and soon John and Sherlock find themselves laden with mountains of work. Any spare time is spent sleeping, and after a while even Sherlock gives in to the confines of his _oh-so-warm_ bed. Only occasionally, though.

John tries out for the football team, and much to his delight, makes it. Sherlock isn't _so_ happy, but he doesn't say anything and they celebrate accordingly. John's adorable little smiles when he thinks no one is looking are too great for Sherlock to waste.

The police find a few weak leads on the Stephanie case, but they rapidly fizzle down to nothing and the suspects are pardoned. Whenever anyone speaks of the case, even in passing, John sees Sherlock clench his teeth and his breathing becomes much slower and heavier. It certainly doesn't take a Sherlock to tell that he's well and truly dying to investigate.

It's not until John's third week at Havenfields Secondary that things finally start looking up. Him and Sherlock are sitting in the common room when it happens. John is trying desperately to complete his science homework without any help from Sherlock this time, though it is thoroughly tempting when the boy himself is sitting right next to him, currently absorbed in a detective novel. One of the better ones, apparently. Usually when he reads a book of that sort John is treated with a running commentary of how 'these authors have no imagination,' or 'that kind of murder would be physically impossible to undertake without the right equipment.'

They were only planning on staying half an hour, really, so it's a good thing that John's homework was so hard- otherwise they'd have been gone by now. He's just finished when he sees Mrs Hudson; their tottering, 70-something year old head of year sticking a piece of paper up on the noticeboard. That's odd. The common room noticeboard was rarely used, spare for those frequent occasions when some numbskull decided it would be funny if they were to stick up something rude. There was even a time, Sherlock remembered, when a group of Year 11 boys had pinned what must have been the contents of at least a dozen packets of condomns mercilessly to the cork. Mrs Hudson hadn't really seen the funny side.

But a teacher bothering to use it? Unheard of. This must be important, then.

The blonde nudges his friend, jerking his head in Mrs Hudson's direction. His eyebrows knit together as he stands up, gangly limbs knocking into eachother. "Come, John."

They walk over to her, and John offers to help. The noticeboard is rather high up on the wall and it is a well known fact that Mrs Hudson has relentless back problems. She smiles at him graciously, offering a pin. Only once he's offered, though, does he realise that there is a slight problem with_ him_ helping with things that are high up in the air. Or... to put it simply, John is rather short and isn't doing any better a job than Mrs Hudson was.

Sherlock tries to conceal a snort of uncharacteristic laughter as he watches John's struggle. "Let me." He smirks, plucking the paper out of the short boy's hands and sticking it up with tremendous ease.

Once Mrs Hudson has left, thanking the boys for their help, they take the chance to read the yellow slip of paper.

**ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS.**

**THERE WILL BE A TRIP INTO THE LOCAL TOWN OF PENZANCE THIS SATURDAY. DUE TO THE UNFORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF STEPHANIE READ'S DEATH, SAFETY PRECAUTIONS MUST BE TAKEN AND YOU WILL BE CHAPERONED BY A TEACHER. ONCE THERE, YOU MAY GO OFF AS YOU WILL, BUT YOU MUST DO SO IN NO LESS THAN GROUPS OF TWO. I WILL ASK YOU TO SIGN YOURSELVES OUT AT THE FRONT DESK. **

**MR. HOULDER.**

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"You know what this means, right?"

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes."

John can barely suppress the look of glee spreading across his face.

"We're going to track down that killer."

* * *

_A/N: Hope you liked it people of fanfiction. Bit more plot in the next chapter. Expect seaside towns, ice-creams and sitting on the beach. Oh, how positively romantic._

_Review and all that jazz, yeah? Yeah?_

_I'll disappear now. Allons-y!_


	13. Hunting down monsters

_A/N: Greetings, greetings. Little quicker this time- and more words than usual! Ooh, we really are working hard. This is Part 1 of the day out to Penzance...next chapter we'll slip in some awkward Johnlock tension for y'all to feast on. I know how you love their cringey blindness at how BLOODY SMITTEN THEY ARE WITH EACHOTHER. Ahem, well, I feel quite strongly about this. I do apologise. Thanks for the new alerters, favourite-ers and reviewer. I do enjoy seeing them pop up in my email. Special thanks to The14thDoctor, whose review was one of the kindest I have ever recieved. *blushes* RIGHT, ENOUGH OF THE CHITCHAT. Are you all sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin._

_Disclaimer: Not even the cheekbones. However much I dream about one day being able to say that I own them, I fear this is unlikely. Please refrain from asking any further so as not to harm my already punctured heart._

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CHAPTER 13:

John wakes early on Saturday morning. Despite the fact that it's 6am and a _weekend_, for god's sake, he can hear the faint echoes of his roommate padding about the in the next room. With a jolt he remembers what is happening, and the excitement of the day ahead helps in resisting the urge to just laze in bed for another half an hour, simply basking in the late September sunlight.

A few more minutes won't do much harm, though.

Yawning widely, he stretches his muscular legs, straining until the tips of his toes are peeking out from under the navy blue duvet. The chill of the air in the shade bites at the tender skin of his feet, and he quickly pulls them back in to the warmth of the blankets. He decides that the ratio of weekdays to weekends should definitely be switched 'round... 2:5 seems like a much better figure, in his opinion.

These few minutes are turning out to be longer than anticipated. He snuggles into the depths of his pillow, and is just about to drop off when;

"Good morning, John."

Sherlock Holmes is standing in the doorway wearing a silken blue dressing gown and holding a fermenting pot of a strange smelling substance that looks suspiciously like _cod liver oil._

John knows that this situation is one of extreme awkwardness, and the question of why his roommate has walked in on him when he was sleeping should probably be worth pursuing, but tangled up in the hazy mist of post-sleep, he just smiles. In this newly acquired, rose tinted vision, all he comprehends is that his roommate is looking particularly dashing while sporting the telltale signs of bed hair. He must have slept, then. The thought that Sherlock Holmes does in fact have to submit to basic human needs makes John happy.

Yet this post-sleep state doesn't last for long. He yawns again, rubbing the crusted sleep out of his eyes and suddenly things swirl into focus. All John seems to comprehend is that he isn't really wearing that many clothes...and for Sherlock, anyway, John's bare chest is becoming _quite_ a distraction.

John squeezes his eyes shut and counts to 10 in his head. _Inhale. Exhale_. _Don't let him know you're uncomfortable. This is a normal situation. Perfectly normal._ "Uhm...g'morning, Sherlock?" He struggles to keep the question out of his voice, but if Sherlock notices then he doesn't comment.

"Good, I thought you were up. We're leaving in half an hour."

John's tiredness vanishes in an instant. "Half an hour? Sherlock- it's **6** in the morning! I need to shower, and dress...and eat! Your superhuman body may not have to succumb to this mundane task of _eating_, but not all of us possess this power!" He was rambling now, half way out of bed to reach a towel.

Sherlock stares at him blankly. He doesn't say anything; just watches as John rushes about the room, grabbing items left and right. And then, as though on some strange whim, he stops, looking at Sherlock with a wild expression on his face. For a moment it looks as though he is about to say something- but decides against it at the last moment.

Then he leaves the room, still clutching that bottle of apple shampoo that Sherlock so often dreams about.

And Sherlock knows that there is no point denying it to himself.

He may have only known John for what- 3 weeks? Who gives a rat's arse on how long it's been? Sherlock Holmes is in love with John Watson, and John can never, _ever_ know.

Because if John knew then he would leave, like all who had left before. And it might hurt Sherlock that he can never tell John, but their friendship means more to him than anything- and if that were to break? Well, there wouldn't be much worth living for, would there?

And that fucking _stings_.

* * *

John, when excited, is insufferably adorable. He is wearing a soft cardigan with little buttons and jeans and the widest grin known to mankind. He might as well give Sherlock a _chance_.

They are walking over to the town. John has never been anywhere in Penzance before except the school, and _my god_ is he excited. According to the endless chatter Sherlock has been enduring for about the past 20 minutes, John likes the seaside. And I mean a lot.

"Oooh, and _fish and chips_! Don't you just love fish and chips?" John says the words with a dreamy, contented expression on his face, as though imagining the taste of salt and vinegar on his tongue. He gazes at Sherlock expectantly.

"Hm? Oh, I've never had fish and chips before. Mummy didn't think it was right."

John's mouth drops open. "_What? _How is that even possible? Fish and chips are the food of the _gods_! You can't go to the seaside without eating them, Sherlock. You probably just don't remember."

"Well, I've never been to the seaside, either."

His mouth drops an inch further. "You had a seriously deprived childhood. Didn't your Dad ever take you?"

Sherlock flinches slightly at the word _Dad, _but John isn't watching. "No. Father was always away on business in Peru. Or Germany. I could never be bothered to remember."

John's face is sad as his friend says these words. He can't imagine a life where kids aren't taken to the seaside with their families, or whose parents aren't around to see them grow up; just the housekeeper.

Then his expression lights up as he has an idea.

"Well, there's a first time for everything! We'll have some today!"

"Aren't we a little old for this?"

"You're never_ "too old"_ for fish and chips, Sherlock. My, my... you do have a lot to learn."

* * *

"Right guys- I don't want you causing any trouble, you hear me? Curfew is 6pm." The teacher bites her lip, wracking her brain for any more instructions. She seems to enjoy watching everyone become restless in their anticipation to get away. She waits a few more seconds, making the most of her power. _Idiot_. Finally, she gives in and shouts;"Off you go, then!"

People literally sprint away on these words, desperate to escape the eye of teachers who wouldn't be _too_ impressed if they were to know just what their innocent little students were about to get up to. I mean, only adults drink alchohol around here, surely?

Sherlock and John wait until the crowd disperses. They stroll across the concrete path above the beach, looking down onto the waves crashing against the age-weathered rocks. The sound is soothing. It reminds John of being 6 when the only trouble in the world was the great amount of time it took for his mother to slather on suncream before he could go in the sea. A time before Harry had broken the news to their parents. A time before alchohol had consumed her life. A time before the complication of his best friend-cross-roommate-cross-somethingelseIcan'tname had declared war on John's heart.

"We could." John comes spinning back to earth.

"Huh?"

"Oh _do_ try to keep up, John. I said we could spend the morning looking for evil-killer-boyfriend, I mean it's not going to take all day...and maybe the afternoon j-just, well..." He swallows abruptly, cheeks turning a dark shade of magenta. A cough and he recovers himself. "Looking 'round town. Getting these famous fish and chips or going to the beach or something of the sort. Of course, only if you want to. I wouldn't dream of spending my precious time taking part in such ridiculous activities as that, but I know that this is the kind of thing normal people take enjoyment in...not that-"

"Oh shut up, Sherlock. Of course _I_ want to, but stop acting like _you_ don't. Stop being so high and mighty about it and admit you are thrilled at the prospect of spending the entire afternoon walking in Penzance with your best friend."

"I wasn't under the impression that my skull was accompanying us."

"_I'm_ your best friend, you git. Not your dumb skull."

"Yorrick is not _dumb, _and do I detect a hint of jealousy there?"

"You named the skull?"

"Avoiding the question, I see."

"Right back at you."

"Why don't we settle on the nice arrangement of ignoring these rather awkward questions and pretend they were never asked."

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

It took them a while to find the right takeout place. It felt to John like they had trawled through dozens of different shops smelling of sizzling grease and fat before they reached the right one. Of course to _him_, any of them could have been reefuge to evil-killer-boyfriend, but Sherlock knew as soon as he walked in the place whether or not they had struck gold. He also knew a great deal about takeout. Apparently you could tell a lot about a Chinese restaurant when looking at a certain part of its door handle.

It must have been the what?- 14th place?- (there are a lot of fast food businesses in Penzance) when Sherlock finally smiled. They hadn't even stepped inside, but Sherlock's smile was growing wider and more dangerous as each second ticked by.

It was a kebab shop. John had never been a fan of kebabs, and he'd rather been hoping that the place where evil-killer-boyfriend worked had been a fish and chip shop. They were planning to order something, and during the order process Sherlock would do that whole scan-and-deduce lark. John was there to make sure that his sociopathic friend wouldn't say anything to blow their cover.

Through the flyer-strewn door, the man behind the counter is just visible. He is exactly how Sherlock had described. Tall, around 18 years old and a head of golden blonde hair. The wannabe detective allows himself to smirk knowingly. Right, as usual.

He pushes gently on the handle of the door and strides into the room, picking up a menu from a table and pretending to study it. John follows him at a loss on what to do.

"May I help you?" Comes the man's baritone voice from behind the counter.

"Oh, we're just having a look at the menu for now." He replies shortly, and signals for John to come over to him, holding up the menu in front of their faces so as not to let the man see what they're talking about. "Make small talk;" he hisses. "I need to deduce as much as possible without letting on we know what he's done."

"Why can't you?" John mutters back, catching the eye of the potential evil-killer-boyfriend and blushing deeply as he winks, shooting them a lascivious, knowing look. "Because you're better with people than I am!" shoots the reply. The blonde shrugs dejectedly, admitting to himself that yes, it would be a better idea for him to do the speaking rather than the sociopath over here.

"So... uhm, it's nice weather we're having?" John's brain gives up, packing its bags and rolling its eyes at its owner's piteous attempt at small talk.

"Fairly, yes." _Not much of a talker, then-_ John starts to think, before the low voice starts speaking once again, only stopping to give a lewd grin as his eyes shoot between the two boys. "You two enjoying your date, then?" He smirks.

John's eyes widen in horror, and he shakes his head, mumbling; "I'm _not_ his date!" at the exact same time as Sherlock's cool voice chips in; "Yes, we are actually." The guy chuckes softly, eyes continuing to dart rapidly between the 'couple.' The dirty look etched onto his face makes John's stomach convulse, and if he weren't so shocked at Sherlock's answer he would have said something to the rude man. Oh, and there's that small fact that he could be a murderer, as well.

"Whatever you say..." He licks his lips unconciously. "You decided on your order yet?"

"Ah... well, we think we'll go to another place. Seen more than enough of here, I think." Sherlock deadpans, turning up the collar of his long black coat as they reach the door. "Come, John."

Feeling gradually more like a pet and less like a friend than ever, John follows him.

_Less than 5 minutes. Sherlock must **really** want to make the most of this afternoon._

* * *

_A/N: If you review then John will buy more apple shampoo. If you don't, it'll mysteriously vanish. And who knows what that'll do to Sherlock? You've been warned._

_You owe me a review. U.._

_ALLONS-Y._


	14. Seaside adventures

_A.N/ Hello, it's little old me back again with another dose of Sherlock-y goodness. Did ya miss me? Hope the wait hasn't been too torturous for y'all; this has been extremely difficult to write. Johnlock is MASSIVE in this one. Oh, how we do love a bit of the old romance. Anyhow, hope you're all enjoying the sun! (If you live in Britain...) IT'S LIKE A MIRACLE. But I'm rambling again... TO THE STORY!_

_Disclaimer: Not even those wonderful jumpers of John's. Yup, they are property of Godtiss who are kinda property of ACD. I don't know. Something like that._

* * *

John wants to get as far away from that place as possible, and suddenly walking seems much slower than usual. He wants to run, run far away to the calm of the beach where he can just fall asleep. Fall into a daze until the image of that man's face as he looked at him and Sherlock has vanished from his mind.

When you look directly into the sun, its light is so blinding and spectacular that you are almost transfixed, but sooner or later have to shield your eyes. And once you tear yourself away, the orb is burnt into your vision, unable, however brief that time may be, to remove itself from your line of sight.

Now all John can see when he closes his eyes is that lascivious smirk, that lewd sneer, that assuming little smile. He and Sherlock aren't- they aren't like _that_. No, of course they aren't. John is _straight_, for god's sake. Then why does he suddenly find it so hard to convince himself?

He turns to look at his friend. Sherlock's expression is indifferent, completely unreadable. Yet when he sees John's gaze, he blinks, plastering what he must think is a casual smile across his face.

"Fish and chips, then?" He asks, and now the smile doesn't need to be faked. He is genuinely happy at the prospect of going to the beach and eating fish and chips with John, _his _John.

The blonde pulls himself together, blinking rapidly to clear the image still burnt into his vision. He grins, attempting at a carefree attitude. "Hey, why don't we look 'round the town first and then get some fish 'n chips? I want to get a postcard to send to Harry and Mum...and you can't visit a seaside town without purchasing at least _one_ item of tack from a souvenir shop."

Sherlock laughs. The sound doesn't seem so unnatural anymore. He's become used to it in these past couple of weeks.

"Well we better get a move on- there is tack to be purchased!" He says seriously, quickening his pace and chuckling as John's admittedly stubby legs have to work extra time to catch up.

They fall into the ever familiar, comfortable silence. The only noises to be heard are the crash of the waves as they throw themselves against the rocks. The early autumn wind bites viciously at their cheeks, and the boys subconsciously shift a little closer. Neither notice, though they silently appreciate the sudden increase in warmth as their body heat combines.

Soon they reach the centre of town. It's bustling with people, and no one really looks up as the tall boy and his shorter companion approach. If they were to, they would undoubtedly notice the secret smile the taller one gives as he sneaks a glance at his friend. Maybe they'd spot the signs of an internal battle taking place in the blonde boy's head. But no one does look up, so for now they are safe.

The pair stop for a second to talk to each other. They seem to be debating where to go first, though neither mind really. As long as they're together, all is well.

The blonde wins. He gives a satisfied smile as he begins walking again. Not many people can fight down Sherlock Holmes, but John Watson sure can.

"Ice cream. We're getting ice cream."

"In case you hadn't noticed, John, it is autumn. Not really the time to be having ice cream, don't you think?"

"There's always a time for ice cream, Sherlock. _Always._ Especially when you're in Cornwall. Oooh, I hope there's honeycomb! Or toffee? Hm, I don't know..." He seems to be talking to himself now, oblivious to the amused head shaking of his friend.

They reach the stand. The blonde searches the sign for a second before his eyes light up in excitement. "One toffee delight with extra toffee sauce, please, and-?"

He looks at his friend searchingly. "What're you having, mate?"

The pale boy shrugs, genuinely unsure. What John doesn't know is that the only ice cream Sherlock's ever had before had been this bitter stuff imported from the finest branches in Italy, and there had been so little and he had been so young he can barely remember it.

"I'll choose for you, then," he grins. "And... a double chocolate swirl with flake." John finishes the order with a decisive nod of the head.

They pay for the ice creams and stroll to a bench overlooking the sea. John has started at his ice cream and is licking it almost ravenously, an expression of pure delight enveloping his face. Sherlock stares at his; eyes narrowed. Then, almost warily, he gives a tentative lick.

The almost sickeningly sweet taste of milk chocolate hits him first. Then the bittersweet dark infusion comes in, grabbing him in and taking hold of his senses. The cold is refreshing down his throat, and he soon begins the overall devouring of the snack. There has not been a time in his life when he has enjoyed food so much. Another thing that's essentially, all been down to one John Watson.

John comes out of his sugar induced haze and smiles as he sees Sherlock's evident pleasure. His surprise at how this ice cream, how this mundane human creation invented solely for pleasure is actually quite enjoyable, makes the blonde chuckle. How utterly _Sherlock._

"Are you eating that ice cream or making love to it?"

Sherlock looks up, startled. His cheeks turn an adorable pink. "_You_ can hardly talk." He mumbles bashfully.

_Bashfully?_ Not really a word you'd expect to be using when describing Sherlock Holmes. There are many words in the English Dictionary that I'm sure would perfectly suffice, but I don't think that anyone ever expected _bashful. _

John reddens too, but the corners of his mouth are twitching up despite himself. They finish their ice creams in record time, and how Sherlock was faster than John at something to do with _food,_ (and that doesn't count food related experiments) no one will ever be able to understand.

* * *

They browse the shops. It's such an insufferably plebeian activity Sherlock is sure he should be hating every second, but actually, he's rather enjoying himself. John buys some Cornish pasty embellished postcards and a little key ring with an ice cream on it. After all, one cannot go to a seaside town without getting a _one item_ of tack. Sherlock raises his eyebrows when John brings this to the counter, but gets one for himself nevertheless. They hang them on their dormitory keys and the two plastic ice creams clink against each other satisfyingly. One vanilla, one dark chocolate. For a brief second Sherlock imagines that John is the vanilla and he is the chocolate and it is _them_ that are hanging side by side, it is _them _that keep accidentally knocking against each other. He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing at the ridiculous notion.

They are in a small charity shop when John starts acting funny. They are talking like normal, then suddenly he must have spotted something because he becomes distracted, for a second forgetting what their conversation was about. When Sherlock asks him he just grins sheepishly and makes some excuse about 'zoning out.'

When they have just left the shop, John tells Sherlock he left his wallet inside, and '_oh, just wait out here for me.' _It takes him a while to find the supposed 'lost wallet,' but eventually John returns, his grin a little wider than when they had entered. Sherlock looks at him questioningly but doesn't pry any further.

What he doesn't notice is that John's wallet had been in his pocket the whole time, and that currently occupying John's satchel is a newly purchased, royal blue scarf. A scarf that just happens to be one that will go _oh so perfectly_ with Sherlock's impossible eyes.

* * *

The sky is beginning to darken, and both John and Sherlock finally admit to themselves that really, in the end, this day was never going to last forever. They buy some fish and chips and walk down the the beach, sitting sheltered from the howling wind by a looming wall of rock.

Sherlock's eyes prickle as he opens the folded newspaper full of this all too famous fish and chips. John had insisted he drench it in copious amounts of vinegar; a notion that the pale boy hadn't been too keen on...but John had _insisted, _alright? The pathetic wooden forks are abandoned as both boys tear at their fish, ignoring the greasy batter coating their fingers.

When did life become so inexplicably _good_? John gives a sideways smile at his friend and in the moonlight his face is lit up, illuminating the blonde of his hair. Sherlock thinks he looks like an angel.

They both start to speak at the same time, and there is an awkward pause as they look at eachother, willing the other one to talk first. Sherlock nods his dark head at John, and they smile. It seems as though they can't ever stop smiling, not while they're with each other.

"I- I got you something, Sherlock." John mumbles and the embarassed flush creeping into his cheeks is possibly the cutest thing he's ever seen.

"You didn't need to."

"I knew you'd say that, and I know. But I wanted to."

Sherlock for once is at a loss for words.

His friend fumbles around in his bag, the dark flush still present in his cheeks. A second later and he looks up. Their eyes meet, and for a second they are the only people in the world. But John ducks his head at the last moment, pulling something out of his bag.

Sherlock looks at the bundle of dark blue fabric and cocks his head to one side. Then John shakes it out and suddenly it is a scarf; a majestic, beautiful blue scarf. The dark haired boy's mouth opens ever so slightly, and he holds out a hand, requesting permission to take it. John nods.

He puts it on. It feels ever so warm enveloping the pale goose flesh of his sinewy neck. Sherlock gulps, gazing up at John with those wide, ever changing eyes.

And now they are kissing, their lips interlocking together perfectly, almost as though they were moulded solely for this reason. John is so taken aback that he gasps into Sherlock's mouth, forgetting even to close his eyes and lose himself in this long awaited embrace. But it feels so good and right and _what are these fireworks going off in my head? _John leans in; shuddering as his eyes closing in utter pleasure. He puts a hand in Sherlock's hair, mussing it up in his fingers as the kiss becomes more passionate. Then at the exact same moment, their eyes open. John suddenly becomes frightfully aware of how close they are, so close he can count each one of Sherlock's sooty black lashes. And Sherlock sees the horrific realisation dawn in John's eyes, and he is so filled with pain and regret that his whole body visibly sags.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John breathes. "I-I don't know if I can do this."

But Sherlock doesn't reply; he is standing up and walking away; such large strides on those long, long legs.

He is gone now. John sits alone on the sand, watching the sun go behind the clouds. His swallowing becomes more strained and painful remembering the look of defeat on Sherlock's face. A lone tear escapes, rolling down his cheek, and he brushes it away angrily. _Why should I be sorry?_ He thinks. _I'm not gay, and Sherlock _knows_ that, **I** know that, **everyone** knows that._

But he _is_ sorry. Sorry for breaking apart from that kiss, the kiss that will forever linger in John's memory to taunt him about the idiotic thing he's just done.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

* * *

_A.N/ So... They kissed. And John's hurt Sherlock, the silly boy. This was hell to write, I can't bear making poor Sherlock upset. But it must be done._

_Don't forget to press the jolly blue button and review!_

_*disapparates*_

_-sidenote- Thinking of changing the title. It's pretty rubbish-I made it up in, like, a second 'cause of the quote in Chapter 1 and I was desperate to post as soon as possible. I kind of hate it though. D'you think I should bother switching? Any ideas? VIRTUAL COOKIES FOR ANYONE WHO HELPS. _


	15. Forgetting to notice

_A.N: Aloha, guys- I missed you. This was very hard to write because I was still upset about meanie old John and my school had exams this week! Ugh, dumb tests. Half term now, though! :) Thanks for all the lovely reviews, alerts and favourites popping up in my emails. They're all very nice to see. _

_Hope you enjoy this chapter, folks. Don't forget to leave a review! ^-^_

_Disclaimer: Nope, not a hair on his head._

* * *

_Everything is ruined._

If Sherlock were an emotional sort of person, he'd probably be crying, or at least trying very hard _not_ to cry right now. But he's not in any way in touch with these so called 'emotions', so instead he shuts the thoughts away to fester and breed and develop inside his head. Thousands of little John Watsons with regret filled eyes, all uttering the same phrase; 'I can't do this.'

Sherlock knows what would have come next. 'I'm straight, Sherlock. I really like you but I'm _straight_.'

And that's why he left when he did. Because he couldn't handle that; couldn't handle hearing those words confirm all Sherlock's worst fears. That's why he'd waited that _bloody_ long! To make sure, to try and figure out that maybe, just maybe, John liked him back. And Sherlock thought he did, for those few blissful seconds. Those few heavenly moments when John closed his eyes and responded so passionately to that godforsaken kiss.

Sherlock knew that this thing they had, this society defined 'friendship' wouldn't last for long. He should have been careful, only tentatively responding to John's kind words and heart-melting smile.

But he hadn't.

He had been overwhelmed by the foreign gesture that someone- someone close to normal (though John Watson was far from _normal_) had wanted to spend time with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes the genius boy, the prodigy, the _freak_.

_Caring is a disadvantage_. Hadn't Mycroft always told him that? Hadn't Mummy always said?

Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Just read this and it's all the proof you could ever need., ever want. Sherlock had cared, Sherlock had felt sentiment towards another person other than himself. Even geniuses can be idiots. Just look at what's happened.

* * *

John stays sat on the beach. It begins to rain but the soft patter of cold droplets through his hair feels something strangely close to _nice_.

If nice is something he can even feel anymore.

Surely _days_ must have come and gone while he's been sat there, though the sun seems to have stayed in its same position throughout. When he glances down at his phone he sees it's more like half an hour, and he realises that without Sherlock time slows down, grinding to a reluctant halt.

Who gives a _shit_ about time, though? You can relive a kiss many times in the space of half an hour.

After a short lived and completely internal debate, John finally stands up. His legs feel all weird, almost as if they've been turned to jelly.

He sees the greasy newspaper which had once held his portion of fish and chips. It's odd to think that just half an hour ago when these fish and chips had still been there, everything had been fine. More than fine. Perfect, in fact.

His eyes prickle slightly but he brushes at them furiously.

Moments later the newspaper is in the bin and the tears that had been threatening to fall have been banished. John is halfway down the beach when he turns. There is a glint of silver in the sand where they were sat.

He jogs back. Buried under the sand are their dorm keys- Sherlock must have dropped them in his hurry. John picks them up and wipes away the muck. His throat aches unbearably at the sight of that plastic chocolate ice cream; its paint already beginning to chip.

He pulls out his mobile and unlocks it. _No new messages. _It's not really a surprise as such, but it stings nevertheless.

_Create new text message_.

He begins to type, numb fingers fumbling clumsily at the small keys.

**Hi, Sherlock.**

**I'm sorry. I know you don't have to forgive me or anything, but I'm sorry, alright?**

**I'm sorry for ending that kiss.**

**-JW**

John gives a bitter chuckle and deletes the message.

**I'm sorry. –JW**

_Send._

It'll have to do. John isn't very good at this kind of thing.

* * *

Sherlock walks. _One foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. Right_. He concentrates on each stride of his legs; anything at all to distract him from thoughts of John. There's no point lying to himself. The only reason he lied before was so John didn't find out, and now—well, now the whole effing _school_ will know. Give it a couple of days and the rumour will have spread like wild fire.

Everyone loves a good scandal.

The cars crawl past like beetles, their soft mechanical buzz echoing into Sherlock's ears. The irritating squawk of a seagull up above. The crash of waves on the rocks. Just empty noise.

I suppose that when someone is depressed they stop properly noticing their surroundings. Hidden away in their own gloomy, self pitying world, they dwell on things they can't fix, shielding their thoughts from the harsh reality of real life.

Sherlock barely notices when a car slows down next to him and a man slides out the back door to walk behind him.

Maybe the tinted windows should warn him. Or even the soft echo of smart shoes coming gradually closer and closer on the cold pavement. Surely that unmistakable odour of fancy washing powder on the man's suit would tell Sherlock to turn around, to run away.

He only really starts to deduce that something is wrong when he sees the flash of a white handkerchief in the corner of his eye.

But he's a second too late.

The scent of sickly chloroform clogs up in his throat and before he knows it he has fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber. His gangly body is bundled up into a rough sack and shoved in the back of a car boot.

The street wasn't even empty. A couple of teenagers smoking on the top of some bins, a mother watching her kids play in the park off the side of the walkway. They hadn't even seen the tall boy with the dark coat in the first place.

No one notices what they don't want to, and the car slips away unnoticed.

For all anyone knew, it was never even there.

* * *

_A.N: Oooh, a cliffhanger! How I do love to tease you all._

_PRESS THE JOLLY BLUE BUTTON, GUYS. IT'S JOLLY, IT'S BLUE AND IT SAYS REVIEW. __Oh my gosh. I'm a poet and I didn't know it. :o_

_Got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary. -I x_


	16. The joys of an irritating prisoner

_A.N/ Hullo. Back again with another thrilling extract- bet you're all on the edge of your seats! (I wish) Hope it's not too short or OOC. I twied my best. Thanks for all the lovely reviews, especially to that one person who PM'ed me an appreciation haiku. IT WAS LOVELY. Wrote this in school when I was meant to be working. Naughty me. Please keep reviewing guys, please please please! I know there are loads of High School AU's out there and you're thinking 'oh god not another one,' but this ISN'T JUST ANOTHER ONE. IT'S MINE. Ahem. Well, do what you want._

_Disclaimer: **Fan**fiction. It's in the name. I am a **fan**._

* * *

The biting cold seeps through his clothes and into his skin, and the pale boy wakes up. Even in his post drugged state, the young prodigy's mind begins to deduce.

_A cold, hard ground. Natural stone floor, then; possibly slate judging by where we are in England. Slightly damp. Maybe some type of cave or basement. Faint scent of mildew. _

He opens his aching eyes and blinks several times, adjusting himself to the new, hopefully not permanent, surroundings. His mind is hazy from the chloroform, and the room swims in front of him.

Sherlock's head aches terribly, a heavy bass drum pounding through the back of his skull. Judging by the uncomfortable crick in his neck, he had been shoved into somewhere cramped, possibly a car boot or sports bag.

_Dull. _

The boy almost chuckles. How insufferably _predictable_. First the chloroform, then the car boot, now a _basement_? The expectation of his first kidnapping was much higher than this. It's a wonder he isn't tied to a bloody chair, for fuck's sake.

No injuries, however. Aside from the aching neck and faint bruises from being manhandled, Sherlock can't seem to feel any reference of inflicted harm.

They must be waiting, then. For probably the first time in his life, Sherlock is genuinely frightened. Not for what they might do, but for the sole fact that he may not be able to escape in time to tell John.

In time to tell him the horrifying truth; that maybe Sherlock Holmes isn't as emotionless and inhuman as everyone makes out.

_Sentiment._ It's a dangerous thing. It's almost laughable to think that Sherlock has been drugged, kidnapped and locked in some psychopath's basement with no idea what they're going to do to him, and all he can think about is whether he'll be able to tell John. Tell him something he's been holding back for a long while.

That he might just be in love.

* * *

1 minute goes by. Then 2, then 3, then 5; and by the time it has reached 20 minutes John's eyes have gone all funny from staring at the screen of his phone for too long. Each pixel seems to be highlighted by the harsh back glow. His wallpaper doesn't even look like a picture anymore, just a jumble of futuristic looking dots attempting to form an image.

He blinks several times and the picture comes back into focus. It's a shot of him and Sherlock in their dorm. The boy had been reading and was grumpy when John had interrupted him, refusing to smile or even look in the direction of the camera. Startled by the flash, however, he had looked up at the last second, and the phone had frozen the image of his bewildered, pale face. John is sat next to him, laughing jovially, hair illuminated by a bright ray of sunlight coming in through the window.

He lets out a dry sob.

Sherlock will do anything for the last word, but now, there's nothing. No witty, snide remark, no cold insult, not even a simple 'Piss off.'

Nothing. Nada. _Zilch._

This should have alerted the blonde, told him something was wrong; Sherlock would outlive _God_ to have the upper hand, and here he had been for 20 minutes with no sign of any reaction from the boy.

John doesn't consider the unthinkable possibility that something might be wrong; why would he? He is constantly reminded by Sherlock's whining that this _isn't_ some some crappy police drama they're living in, this is reality. But reality can sometimes be more harsh than even the most daring and scandalous of screenwriters.

He sets his jaw and deletes the text from his sent box. So Sherlock's ignoring him, is he? John had said he was sorry, and there was nothing else he could do, not until he's actually_ spoken_ the boy.

He goes to his contacts and clicks on Sherlock's name, written in crisp, geometric slashes. _Call._

He hears the number dial.

The phone rings out; once, twice, three times.

And again, and again, and again.

The sound makes his ears ache, but now Sherlock is speaking- and John could almost laugh with euphoria- he picked up!

"Hello? Sherlock, it's John- look, I'm sorr-"

He gets cut off. Sherlock continues to speak, and John doesn't understand, what's this about 'making it interesting?'

Then he realises. _Answer machine_.

His shoulders droop and he presses the small red button to end the call, yet that one supposedly simple click seems like it's ending a whole lot more.

* * *

It isn't long before his captors finally get bored of waiting. A man, tall and daunting, strides into the dank room, his smartly shoed feet tapping rhythmically on the stone floor. Even before he opens his mouth, Sherlock knows that this isn't his kidnapper. Well, not the 'leader,' as such. Just the man lumbered with doing his dirty work.

"You're to come with me, boy." His voice is low and growling, feebly attempting to be intimidating, but Sherlock knows it's just an act. Under that hard exterior, there's something hidden, something that a month ago, the pale boy wouldn't even have noticed.

There's love etched on his face. Love for this mysterious 'leader,' despite his valiant efforts to disguise it. And if the detective can see rightly, there's pain, too.

Oh, there's _so_ much pain.

_Find their pressure point, their weak spot. _"Ah, my destiny awaits." He gives a curt smile and rises to his feet gracefully. The man seems angry at Sherlock's careless attitude. He grabs the boy's arm, jerking him roughly to stand closer. The detective cocks his head to one side and gives a coy chuckle.

"Where am I to be taken?"

The man ignores him.

"To your leader, is it? And does this leader by any chance have a name?"

A muscle beneath his eye twitches, but he continues to stare straight ahead.

"Ah, one of the nameless ones- I _see_. They just love creating a bit of mystery, them. But you probably already know that, don't you- what with your..._relationship,_ and all."

The man clenches his jaw and tries to take a calming breath.

Sherlock smiles nonchalantly. "Bet it annoys you, this whole 'pet' act, you doing his bidding for him. _Good dog_, are you? Is he your _master_? Do you _sit_ for him? Do you _beg_?"

The man swirls around suddenly, grabbing Sherlock roughly by the neck and bringing their faces close together. His breathing is so heavy and they are so close that the boy can smell the acrid stench of nicotine and alcohol on his breath. The muscle beneath his eye is twitching more rapidly now; up and down, up and down, up and down.

"You. Shut. Your. _Fucking._ Mouth."

Sherlock grins.

This is going to be fun.

* * *

_A.N/ Oh poor John. Oh teasing old Sherlock. Oh love deprived, cold hearted 'pet' man. But what happens next? Who is this kidnapper? You'll have to wait for next week's episode to find out! _

_I changed the name of this, by the way. It used to be 'How mindnumbingly dull,' and now it's 'That Holmes freak.' Hope there's no confusion there. _

_Allons-y. _


	17. The encounter

_A.N/ New chapter! :) I was a bit quicker, don't you think? *pats myself on back* We're getting some real plot in here now people, _and_ you all get to find out who crazy kidnapper is! Yay! Thanks for all the kind reviews, favourites and alerts. Keep 'em coming! _

_Disclaimer: Haven't persuaded them yet, my bribes of cookies just aren't working it seems._

* * *

Sherlock sees the man's fingers trembling with suppressed rage as he unlocks the door. He smirks, knowing it will only infuriate him further.

It opens with a series of clicks and weird buzzes that he can only associate with high level security. _Hm._ Must be something dangerous, then. Or illegal. He wouldn't mind either, to be totally honest. As long as it's a _little_ more imaginative than the previous chloroform, car boot and being locked in that bloody basement.

They step inside and Sherlock takes the opportunity to knock into the man; clearly savouring the annoyed grimace steadily growing on his broad face. They wait in an uncomfortable silence. Sherlock clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as though in boredom. He looks up at the ceiling and sighs dramatically. The grimace on the 'pet man's' face definitely is turning out to be something spectacular, the pale boy decides.

He really is beginning to enjoy himself.

All of a sudden their stiff silence is broken by a faint cough outside the door. It's funny how such an innocent action can seem so intimidating, but for some strange reason it does, and Sherlock's eyebrows draw together into a hard line; face becoming suddenly serious.

"I'll take it from here, Sebby darling."

A lilting, Irish twang echoes through the room. The softly spoken, sing song words send a shiver down Sherlock's spine.

'Sebby' turns to glare at the pale boy. His face still stony, though what Sherlock doesn't know is that an overwhelming sense of maniacal glee is filling him. A sadistic smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and the detective frowns slightly.

"Of course, boss." He says shortly, and strides out the room.

He leaves a ringing silence behind him.

Sherlock just stands there, unsure of what to do. The elation from his relentless teasing of 'Sebby' vanishes in an instant as the footsteps from outside the door draw closer. Then the door is pushed open, and a dark figure appears, illuminated despite the darkness.

He looks about 17 years old and is wearing a smart suit; hands resting in its pockets lazily. His face is deathly pale and drawn into a gleeful grin; almost reaching the corners of his ears. He is happy, unbelievably so. The pale demeanour seems lit up in this foreign state of genuine gladness.

But his eyes are what scare Sherlock the most.

The only thing Sherlock can really think of to describe them properly is _dark_. Not just in a sense of colouring, though they are indeed almost black in shade, but in a sense of what lays beneath them. A dark soul, a dark heart, a dark mind.

You can tell a lot from a person's eyes.

He steps into the light and his pale face is thrust into sharp clarity.

And now he is speaking, and the dark haired detective can do nothing but stand there gormlessly, because this man seems to be the defintion of pure evil, a kind of evil Sherlock could never have imagined or dreamed of experiencing. The mysterious, pale man licks his lips.

"Here we are at last, Sherlock. You and I, _together."_

His expression looks almost hungry.

"Isn't it just magical, these lovely first introductions? Because right now, you have no idea who I am, no idea what I can do. But I know who you are, Sherlock, and you intrigue me. You are an _enigma_. Or rather, you _were. _You_ were _an enigma, Sherlock, but now, well- now you are boring. You're dull, you're _human_. And you know why?"

He stops speaking and stares at Sherlock with a strange intensity, almost bordering on anger.

"John Watson."

Sherlock flinches, and he knows he is as good as beaten.

"Your little _'_pal_,_' John _bloody_ Watson. You tried to keep him from getting close to you. To keep him from slowly chipping away at what_ could_ have been that impenetrable brick wall you so often hide behind. But he got in, didn't he, Sherlock? Brick by brick, he made his way into your heart."

"No." The dark haired boy breathes, and the strange man looks up, almost surprised.

"No?"

Sherlock gives a mirthless chuckle, and stares right at the man, right into those dark, dark eyes. "I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

The man cocks his head, sighing deeply. "Don't have a heart, honey? I think we both know that's not _quite_ true."

_There is no oxygen in this room._ Sherlock is suffocating, choking to death from the lack of air in his lungs. But the man seems fine. He doesn't notice how everything is fading away, crumbling and withering due to this sudden change of state. He doesn't notice how Sherlock is drowning, heaving up water, collapsing onto the ground and writhing in pain, until suddenly he falls still.

But the man starts talking again and Sherlock realises that he's not drowning; he's not suffocating; he's not lying dead on the floor. He's stood in the same position, watching this man, this _spider_ of a man.

"And this heart, this heart that makes you so _fucking_ human, you know what I'm going to do with it?"

He waits, and Sherlock watches.

"I'm going to burn it. I'm going to burn _you._ I'm going to burn the _heart_ out of you."

If he is surprised by Sherlock's lack of visible reaction, he doesn't show it. He steps closer, and leans right up to the boy, lips lingering close to his ear, breathing heavily in his excitement. "I like you, Sherlock." He whispers, and runs a long finger down the boy's pale cheek. The almost affectionate action leaves Sherlock's skin tingling, but not in the nice way it does when John touches him. No, his skin feels like it's on fire.

Like it's _burning._

* * *

John doesn't see Sherlock on the walk back to school. He doesn't see him as they reach the entrance hall and the crowds part; everyone going their separate ways. He doesn't see him on the way to their dorm, either. He suspects the detective journeyed back there alone, despite the instructions from their teacher.

Well it's _Sherlock_, isn't it?

He slots the key into the lock, and pushes open the door to 221B. It's quiet, eerily so. Sherlock isn't here.

His books lie open on the table, and the measuring jug from earlier with the fermenting _cod liver oil _is balanced precariously on top. It's started to smell, and John sweeps it up into his hands, dumping it in the bin with a wrinkling of the nose.

Serves him right. Shouldn't have left it there in the first place.

But then John remembers that it was his fault. Sherlock has the right to be upset. He fishes the container out the bin and places it back on the table.

His shoulders droop and he walks to his room, falling onto the bed silently. His chest aches but he holds back the tears. _Real men don't cry_, his Dad used to say.

He falls asleep and doesn't wake until the morning.

* * *

The man turns to walk away and Sherlock feels himself let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. The pale boy see's his smile grow wider.

The man suddenly turns back round and now his lips are on Sherlock's, and he is crushing their mouths together violently in a sudden fit of insanity. His chest is contracting and his eyes are wild; _crazy. _Sherlock's own eyes widen as he groggily comprehends the situation, and he pushes the man away from him with a strength he didn't know he could possess.

"Who _are you_?" He splutters, wiping a hand over his mouth in disgust.

The man leers, unperturbed.

"Jim Moriarty," he sings. "Oh _dearie me_, Sherlock. I'm... _disappointed_ you haven't heard of me. Well, I guess that _was_ rather the idea." He shrugs his shoulders in a careless gesture. "I _do_ hope you enjoy your stay."

He struts toward the door and opens it with a flourish.

"What do you want with me?"

Moriarty turns, biting his lip as though in thought.

"It's not _what_ I want with you, Sherlock. I just want you to be mine."

He closes the door and he is gone.

* * *

_A.N/ Dun, dun dun! IT'S MORIARTY. YAY! Gotta love a bit o' the old Jim. _

_Hope you liked this chapter. Again, I urge you to review, even if it's just to berate me about grammar or a simple 'update now!' Review if you like Benedict Cumberbatch. Review if you like crumpets. Review if you've seen Basil the Great Mouse Detective. Review if you think Moriarty is sexy._

_Pwetty please? I'll buy Jim a Westwood for every review this chapter gets. _


	18. I'll wait for you

_A/N: Yes, I'm late again. Way to rub it in. Anyhoo, thanks so so so so much for all the response I got last chapter! :O Jim gets 16 Westwoods- woop woop! He **will** be a happy psychopath. So...it'd be cool if you could do the same for this chapter, yeah? No? Oh, come on. For me. _

_I know I haven't done this before, but the soundtrack for this chapter is 'I Can't Decide' by the Scissor Sisters. It just fits Jim so well. (you whovians out there might recognise it from when the Master was on Doctor Who, but they're so similar that I think they can share. Sharing is caring, after all.)_

_This chapter is dedicated to Saffie, the lord of all ships and the most epic person to have ever walked this earth. RAVENCLAW FOREVER, BUDDY. Thanks for being with me when I'm burning up a sun._

_Disclaimer: Four words: They. Would. Have. Kissed._

* * *

It might have been around a day, but he can't be sure. A faint trickle of the neon glare from a sign filters in through the bars at the window, but he can't tell if it's the middle of the night or 11 o'clock the next day.

Each second seems like a time bomb just waiting to go off.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. _

The drip of a pipe outside, somewhere that seems so close yet so far away, sounds to Sherlock like the clip of shoes against stone, and he flinches into the silence. He's almost glad of this semi-darkness; consuming the finer details of the room and leaving it just an abundance of blurred out shapes with soft edges and a hanging question as to what they really are. He doesn't _want_ to know; doesn't _want_ the horrific knowledge of what that snake of a man is going to do to him. Sherlock knows he _should_ want to know. So he can put up more of a fight; stand a better chance. But he just squeezes his eyes shut and lets the fear wash over him.

He waits in the silence and nothing is more terrifying.

For a few hours he sits and waits, cowering away from invisible monsters in the black. When he finally hears that ominous click of shoes outside the door, he isn't as scared as he thought he'd be. The fear is too great already to be increased by any more.

Moriarty steps into the room and it is thrown into a blinding light, but Sherlock can'tshant_won't_ shield his eyes. He won't show this man the weaknesses that he's trying so hard to defeat. The terror in his eyes is obvious, though, and the man in the doorway allows the corner of his mouth to twitch up in a satisfied leer.

"My darling Sherly, did you miss me?" He sings, positively skipping over to the boy crouched in the corner. The man seems put out at the lack of response, and frowns, running his fingers through Sherlock's dark, matted curls subconciously. "Well?"

His fingers tighten in Sherlock's hair as the boy yet again fails to respond.

"Hm," He sighs, and squats next to the boy, staring right at him with wild, crazy eyes. They are so close and Sherlock can't bear it because he can't help but think of the last time they were this close. "I'm sure we'll get you talking soon enough, my sweet. Everybody has their own, personal weakness. And I'm just _dying_ to discover yours."

Sherlock looks at Moriarty and laughs, and the sound that escapes his mouth is bitter but genuine. "Oh I can talk for you, Moriarty. Is that what you want? Because if it is I'll talk all you like." His steely eyes glint dangerously. "But you've come across a flaw in this magnificent plan, _Jimmy boy. _I don't have any weaknesses, and I'll never '_be yours.' _You've got your pet for that, haven't you? Just tell me what you really want, and I'll see what I can do."

Jim's smile grows wide and hungry.

"Oh darling, you really are something, aren't you? You'll figure out what I want soon enough, I'm _sure,_ but for now I'd just love it if you'd let me have my fun."

"Your fun?"

"Oh yes, sweetheart. I'm going to have a lot of fun with you, whether you like it or not. And it'd be great if you could play along, for my sake _and yours."_

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow.

"That's how it is, is it?" Moriarty seems disappointed, but the sadistic gleam is still present in those dark eyes. "Okaaay..." he shrugs. "Your loss, I guess. We'll just have to take a more..._forceful_ approach, then."

And now he is standing and he is taller than a giant.

His hand reaches into the pocket of his suit and comes out a second later, clutching an object Sherlock can't quite decipher in the gloom from the recently closed door. But then the thing glints and suddenly it is the tip of a needle; and Sherlock would almost be relieved if it weren't for the fearful anticipation of what will happen next. What will happen _after_ he drugs him.

_Calm. Deep breaths. Calm. It's fine. Think of John. No, wait, don't think of John- don't ever think of John, no no no. Think of violin symphonies. And experiments, and Yorrick- and ice cream. No, not ice-cream, that's John again. Oh shit, don't panic. Calm. Calm and tranquil. Insulting Anderson. Cases. Forensics. The Periodic Table. Calm. Stay calm._

"Slightly unoriginal, isn't it?" _Calm. Calm. Don't show your weaknesses_.

"You want to be impressed, do you?" The man tilts his head in a sign of mock surprise. "Oooh, I like you Sherlock; you really are tremendously entertaining. I'm sure we can sort something out if you want to be impressed, though I'm sure you'll just love what we've got in line for you.

"And this?" He gestures to the needle and shrugs, sticking out his bottom lip questioningly. "Just a..._precaution_, as such. Wouldn't want you putting up a fight. I want you right where I can have you; no other _distractions."_

He reaches out another hand and fondles Sherlock's cheek lovingly, and it's all the boy can do not to flinch away.

And now Moriarty is kissing him again, pressing their lips together and forcing his tongue in violently, thrashing it around inside Sherlock's mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and martinis and expensive doedorant and Sherlock wants to gag, but he knows he can't and that knowledge is killing him. Moriarty drops the needle in a sudden insane moment and places both of his hands against the detective's pale face, digging in his finger nails passionately. The boy feels blood trickle from where they had been, and the pyschopath licks it away roughly, breathing coming in ragged and restless gasps.

Then he pulls away and the look on his face is almost regretful. Just before the needle plunges into Sherlock's skin, the boy sees his captor blow a fleeting kiss.

The last thing on Sherlock's mind before he is knocked out is that this man, this psychopath, this _spider_- is completely, irrevocably insane.

* * *

He still isn't here and it's all John's fault.

It's been 13 hours and 24 minutes since their kiss. Nobody except him has noticed Sherlock's absence, but if they properly looked, they'd see that there's a scar down his middle, a cut that can't be patched up or made better. But John wants it there, wants a reminder that once, him and Sherlock kissed, and everything was happy and good and oh so wonderful. He wants to remember that once he was whole and now he's not and it's all his own fault.

_Where are you, Sherlock?_

_I love you._

* * *

The dark haired boy wakes up and his hands are somewhere above his head. There is rope rubbing against the tender flesh of his skin, and his feet are dangling, almost touching the floor but not quite. He isn't sure how much force his arm muscles will be able to bear.

He knows that there is another presence is in the room, but he is long past the point of fear now.

Moriarty switches on the light and Sherlock suddenly realises that he is naked. A small flicker of embarassment starts to kindle in the back of his brain, but what he hates the most is the vulnreability he feels as the psychopath's eyes run greedily over his body, lingering only for a second on a point just below his chest. A shiver runs down his spine and the rope above him shudders with the movement.

"Oh wonderful, you're awake."

He walks over and licks Sherlock's navel. The area feels contaminated.

"I was starting to think you'd gotten bored of me, my love."

"Believe me, I got bored a long while ago."

"That's my boy. Mm, I'll have a _blast_ breaking you."

"I highly doubt that."

"Ah yes, you've got that spirit I see. You really are turning out to be quite special, honey pie."

Sherlock starts to reply but Moriarty reaches up and presses a finger against his lips.

"Shush, sexy. Enough of the chit-chat; it's time, I think."

He grins and turns around.

"Sebby, darling? Bring in the equipment now."

His voice is suddenly snappy and business like. The broad man enters the room, arms full of various objects that are undefinable through his drug induced goggles. Sherlock can tell that the man looks sullen, and he internally smirks despite the serious situation.

Moriarty gazes over the contents in his arms and the man drops them on the floor, brow set in a glare. Jim sticks out his lip and cocks his head, pulling the man toward him and planting a chaste kiss on his stubbly cheek. "Oh, Sebastian. Don't be so grumpy, you know I hate it so. I'll give you a treat later, my sexy little sniper."

Sebastian lets a leer escape his lips at this, and he looks at the boy tied up from the ceiling.

"Have fun with him, boss."

Moriarty returns the leer and shoos the man away, eyes fixed determinedly on Sherlock.

"Believe me, I will."

* * *

_I won't make you watch Doctor Who or play Cluedo and I won't pester you about being polite. You can be rude to Anderson all you want- hell, I'll even join in. I'll buy you fish and chips every Saturday and we can eat them on the beach and watch the sea while you tell me facts about rock formation. I'll listen to the whole thing, really I will._

_I'll skip footie practice to come to the library with you and we can kiss behind the shelves when no one's looking._

_We can do experiments in the labs when the teachers aren't there and I won't tell you off for breaking the rules._

_Come back to me, Sherlock. I'll wait for you, ok? I'll wait- however long it takes._

_I love you._

* * *

_A/N: That was pretty grim, huh? Hope you enjoyed it, and I would love it if you'd review as much as you did last time- it was overwhelming how much response I got. Maybe it was because I did that thing, y'know- this..._

_REVIEW IF YOU LIKE JAM. REVIEW IF YOU SHIP OTTERHOG. REVIEW IF YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT MEANS. REVIEW IF YOU'RE A WIZARD. REVIEW IF YOU LISTEN TO BEN HOWARD. (I know that has absolutely nothing to do with anything but if you don't I recommend him. Seriously- his voice is my heroin.) REVIEW IF YOU LIKE CUPCAKES WITH BENEDICT'S FACE ON. REVIEW IF YOU HAVE SEEN THIRD STAR AND CRIED. Oh, and John will get jam for every review. He needs his jam. _

_Give him his jam, readers. Or he might get angry._

_Happy sherlocking :-)_


	19. Stayin' Alive

_A/N: This was ready two days ago but my internet has been all messed up and keeps deleting my edits. Argh. Never mind, here we are now. Hope you enjoy it but the angst is high in this one so you probably won't. Maybe you could review (cool idea, huh?) and tell me what it is you feel. Yeah? YEAH?_

_Dedicated to Yaz 'cause she is da bomb. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way, shape of form._

* * *

He'd thought that the fear couldn't get any greater, but he'd been wrong- so _painfully_ wrong. So adorably naïve it almost hurts to think it.

The acrid fume of petrol as it fills the air is what does it, he thinks.

Of course, it is increased slightly as the familiar snap of the cigarette lighter is flicked on and off, on and off, on and off; a playful dance of heat and flame. So pretty to look at but with a danger so present and so frightening that you almost can't tear yourself away.

He knows that the man is crazy but this sheer level of insanity is somehow impossible to wrap his head around. For a moment Sherlock considers calling for help, but he knows it'll be no good. They'll just laugh, and it's better to die with dignity than to die a-

_To die a coward._

Is that really what's important right now?

In the few seconds it takes for Moriarty to turn around, Sherlock has already formulated 4 completely impossible get away plans in his head. The problem with completely impossible get away plans, though, is that, surprisingly, they're completely impossible.

He likes to think that he doesn't feel pain like other humans do, but he is lying to himself. The pain he feels is sometimes even stronger. The dull ache of unacceptance and snide remarks and scathing glances is a pain that leaves permanent scars, etched deep into the skin.

Scars that are easy to hide but impossible to ignore.

"You'll love this, my dear."

_Breathe. _

"If you're under that impression then I'm afraid you're not as adept in the science of deduction as you'd hope to be. Why don't we skip the messing around and you just tell me what it is you want, _Moriarty."_

He raises his eyebrows coyly and his voice becomes sullen; a child deprived of sweets or staying up as late as their siblings. "Oh but _honey, _where's the fun in that? I like to play with my food before I eat it."

"I see your Mother never taught you any manners."

"She may have attempted to, cutie pie, but let's say I..._persuaded her otherwise_."

What to say to that? Why waste what may be his last precious breaths giving this spider the satisfaction of a response?

"Too good for me now, are you? Ah, I dreaded the day. I guess that means you're ready for our little game, then."

_Breathe._

The man seems to jump with anticipated excitement. A few drops of petrol escape the can, flowing onto the floor and creating dozens of little tribuataries meandering in and out the stone cracks. He watches them. So free and unhindered. He's never really thought before what it would be like to be able to leave your body and exchange it for another; be it something alive or inanimate. Yet the secure life of those small rivers of petrol seems so desirable to him now. Even when they're catching alight, their flammable substance reacting so passionately with the flame, they know no different. It's just what they do and he guesses that this is their purpose. It's just what they do.

But this isn't what _he_ should be doing. He should be sitting back in dorm 221B with John, teasing him about his new and even more ridiculous installment to the already substantial jumper collection. About the pot of raspberry jam he found hiding in his sock drawer. About the adorable (he'd skip that bit out, though) way his cheeks flush when he's embarassed.

But don't think about John, not now.

Maybe if he distracts himself with thoughts of purpose and reason to life the pain may not be so great. He might be able to dull it out until it's just a throbbing reminder in the back of his head somewhere, that sense of not really feeling because it's too large to all feel in one go. Maybe now _is_ the time to think of John. Not regretful, '_I can't do this'_ John, but smiley John, angry-but-not-really-that-angry-at-all John, fish and chips John, soft kisses on the sand John. _His_ John.

He trys to filter out the sound of splashing liquid on the ground, the chug of the can as the chemical is released.

The flick of the lighter as it ignites.

The deafening roar as giant, monstrous flames suddenly arise in a burning ring around him.

Moriarty chuckles from the smoky haze behind the flames, a swimming, unfocused snapshot- _is it really there? _He speaks but it is far away and dreamlike.

"Let's play a game, Sherlock."

He laughs again and it is the sound of clown's laughter, the laugh of an ancient marionette doll dancing on its strings.

"But what's a game without rules? Now I'm going to tell you what to do, Sherly, and you better listen carefully; because I'm only saying it once.

'I'm going to ask you a few questions, honey. Simple as that. Just a few, easy questions. No catch. _Ac_tually..." He bites his lip, considering for a second."..._no_, that's a lie. There is a catch. You get my questions wrong and the flames get closer, you see? I'll give you a bit of a chance though, petal. I'm sure if you try real hard you'll be able to think back and find the right answer- 'cause if you _don't..._Well. Things might not turn out so great. Understood? Then let's begi-"

"I have a question."

"Oh, you do? How marvellous."

"A game isn't a game without a prize. What if I refuse to play? There needs to be at least something going for me."

"Little greedy, aren't we now? I admire your spirit, Sherlock, I really do. And I guess; seeing as it's _you, _I _may_ be able to sort out some kind of...arrangement. Hm, _let's see_...how 'bout I don't _immediately_ kill you?" He gives a sudden wild guffaw, throwing his head back in euphoria. Sherlock can see the milky whites of his eyes; the sheen of filmy sweat illuminating his pale face. The heat has become overpowering now and it pulses through the room like a tsunami tide.

"Not kill me _immediately_? I don't really see that as a reward, Moriarty. I want something more. I get your questions right and you let me go."

"I'd love to just say no, my darling Sherlock, but I doubt you'll even get past the first round. I think I'll be quite safe in the knowledge that you're not walking free anytime soon."

"That's a deal, then."

Moriarty just grins.

And now the heavy bass pounding of music is filling the room, a track Sherlock's sure he's heard before; somewhere in his life, but has no doubt deleted from his mind. He struggles to remember. This song...their butler used to play it to remind him of the 'old days;' back when people wore lycra and skin tight suits and murderers were inventive with their killings.

Then it hits him.

'Stayin' Alive.' An iconic Bee Gees track, apparently. Seems rather appropriate for his current position.

Moriarty's grin widens. "So without further ado, my cherub, let round 1 commence!"

* * *

They pick up on the second ring.

John let's out a heavy breath of air he didn't know he'd been holding and begins to speak.

_"_Mr. Holmes? Uhm, my name is Joh-"

"I know who you are, Mr. Watson."

"What? How?- wait, no, that doesn't matter. What matters now, sir, is that your brother- er, Sherlock? He-he-"

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid he's gone missing...Sir."

"And how long has he been missing, Mr. Watson?"

"...About a day and a half."

"And why didn't you ring me sooner?"

_What?_ "I- uh- I didn't think of it, sir, you see... me and Sherlock-"

"Sherlock and I."

"Yeah, _that_...well, er, Sherlock and I- we sort of got into a bit of an argument and then he just raced off and I thought he was avoiding me but it's been ages oh shit it's all my fault I don't know what to do god god god what if he's been-"

"You're babbling, John. I want you to calm down and speak nice and slow, okay? I want you to tell me all you can about where you were when he..._ran off_. Can you do that?"

The man's expression seems to hold a smug sense of knowing. Knowing what _actually_ happened when Sherlock, as John so wisely put it- _ran off._

"Er, yes, sir. We- we were on the beach in Penzance... y'know the one near school?- yes well we'd been eating fish and chips and then...we, er, we _got into the argument_ and suddenly he runs off... and I'm terribly sorry but that's all I know."

"I hope you understand that you've been extremely irresponsible, John."

"Yes, I do."

"Thank you for telling me this. I've known since yesterday that he's been missing, however he hasn't run away. He's been kidnapped. I have my best men on the job, John, so I'll ask you not to worry. I'll be picking you up from the entrance hall in 10 minutes."

"What? Why?"

"10 minutes; I trust you can pack a bag in that time. Goodbye, Mr. Watson."

It's not until they've both hung up the phone that John realises Mycroft never did explain why.

* * *

Sherlock closes his eyes but he can't drown out the heat. Sweat falls like tears from the corners of his eyelids and it's only the fact that he knows these aren't tears is what's keeping him sane.

Moriarty would just love it if he started crying.

The man's voice booms out over the sound of the music, echoing into each corner of the smoke filled room. The flames don't seem to be affecting him; him and his superhuman body.

Well, not _super_human. Just _in_human.

"Question 1 is an easy one, my darling. We don't want you falling at the first hurdle. Now, are you ready?"

He doesn't wait for Sherlock to reply.

"When did you meet him, Sherlock? When did you meet John Watson?"

"I think you already know the answer to that question."

"Oh, but that isn't the point, doll face. I've asked you your question and now you answer."

"The 1st of September. Next question."

"Good, good. They get a little harder now, that was just a practice one for you. So, sugar plum, I would like you to tell me why you gave this boy, this insignificant little _nobody- _John _fucking_ Watson- your heart."

_Silence._

"I don't have a-"

"We've been through this already, Sherlock. Now tell me the answer or I'll burn you _and_ that pathetic heart of yours."

_He'll let you go. Just answer the question. Breathe._

"I don't believe that's necessary, Moriarty. I'll tell you. You see this is something you won't even understand; what it's like to have normal human feelings and emotions. I thought it was a curse at first; a burden upon me which weakened me and held me back. But no. It's not a burden, not a curse. This act of being_...human_, or 'normal,' even, doesn't mean you have to succumb to the mindless thought stream or activities of this godforsaken race. I'm not saying they're any more interesting than they really are or that they hold some hidden talents only a few can see. They don't- they're bloody idiots. But the reason I gave John Watson my heart is because he realised that I am a sociopath and he didn't care. He didn't care that I was a freak. That's the thing about these 'normal' people, there are some of them that try to escape from the flock. Hell, some even have their own opinions and _a few_ don't even care what others think of them. John doesn't care, and if he does then I respect him even more, if that's possible. If being accepted by people like John is as fucking nice as this, I don't give a shit if I become society's definition of 'normal.' Maybe you should find your own, Jim. Find your own 'acceptor.' I'm sure your little pet Sebby will accept you, and I think you should give him the chance. You should try it out sometime. This normal lark. _Caring." _

The smoke is making his eyes water but he's not crying, Sherlock doesn't cry, not _ever_.

Moriarty is still for an infinitesimal amount of time.

His face is pale. The face of an ancient grandfather clock; gradually ticking away.

The tick of the time bomb.

_Tick. Tick Tick._

He half expects for it to go off but it doesn't get the chance. They're interrupted, and through the flames Sherlock sees a sea of faces, all men in sharp suits barking orders into hand phones, one strapping hand cuffs on a wild eyed Moriarty. He doesn't see any of them, though.

All he sees is a halo of golden hair illuminated a thousand times by the immensity of the fire. And he could cry but he doesn't do that for _anyone_, not _ever_, not even if John Watson had come and saved him from the clutches of this murder-hungry psyhcopath. It's so sickeningly story book ending he should vomit, but for once he likes it. These happily ever after things are a whole lot more than they're cut out to be.

He smiles for what feels like the first time in forever.

But then John is running through the flames and Sherlock is screaming for him to stop; _'John it's too_ _dangerous- I'm fine, go back!'_ - but John doesn't go back and Sherlock can only watch as the skin on his bare arms blackens and John cries out in agony, still running.

He reaches Sherlock but all the boy can see is the puckered, burned skin on his face. He can't see the heavenly blue eyes that he'd dreamed of seeing so close up ever since they'd first met, can't see the dimple that appears when he's smiling.

He definitely isn't smiling now.

John blinks rapidly through the raw skin on his eyes. He tries to stand straight. The look of pain is evident on his face and a faint whimper escapes from his mouth.

Something catches in the back of Sherlock's throat and he lets out a sob.

Sherlock doesn't cry for anyone, not _ever_. But John Watson certainly isn't anyone.

Then the tears are running down his face and suddenly, the whole world goes black.

* * *

_A/N: I enjoy your suffering. That's all I need to say, really. Thanks for ma wonderful reviews last chapter, appreciated as much as ever of course. How 'bout we try it again? Pretty please with sugar on top?_

_John gets 14 pots of jam. He is happy. _

_Guilt tripping you all is fun. Without reviews, no more ice cream for Sherlock._


	20. Hospital beds

_A.N/ We've come a long way, haven't we guys? 20 chapters! I'd like to just say thank you to all of the dedicated followers and reviewers to this fic. We're not done yet, though. The reviews last chapter were awesome, as ever. 14 ice creams for Sherlawk. Oh, and guess what? If this chapter gets 16 reviews WE'LL REACH 100! :O Please please please just spare a second to comment and this fic will come into the 3 figure digits... ^.^ Enjoy :) _

_Dedicated to Casey (WerePireGirl) for being generally awesome and discussing the joys of Benedict Cumberbatch with me. _

_Disclaimer: I wouldn't let Sherlock jump and there'd be a lot more kissing._

* * *

He wakes up. This is definitely not home.

The sheets are crisp and starched; smelling strongly of cheap washing powder and that easily-distinguishable stench of bleach. He tries to roll over but the covers have been fiercely tucked into the edges of the bed, leaving him trapped.

He's never liked hospitals all that much.

There are voices outside the door, all talking at once. Some he doesn't recognise; a female, a doctor, a nurse. His head teacher. Then of course there's Mycroft, the nasally and ever present smug tone of his darling older brother. Sherlock opens his eyes and sure enough there stands the customary umbrella, leaning importantly against a wall.

He strains his ears but he can't hear any more. Can't hear the almost-broken-but-not-quite voice of the only person he _really_ wants to see.

Where is John, anyway?

He would have thought that John would be visiting him around now. In all fairness, it would only be to berate him about the most recent stupid situation he's gone and landed himself in, but that doesn't matter. At least it's John, and Sherlock knows he won't be that angry. Not for too long, anyhow.

It would help if he knew why he'd been put in this hospital bed in the first place, though.

He runs a quick glance over his arms but there are no scars.

That's a relief. He doesn't like to think what Mycroft would do to him if he'd taken another overdose.

The fatigue slips over his senses once more, and he sighs. For once sleep doesn't seem so daunting. He blinks drowsily and soon his eyes fall shut.

He'll remember in the morning.

* * *

"He'll want answers when he wakes, you know. And I'm going to give them to him."

Mycroft feels strangely uncomfortable without his umbrella to lean on. The rest of the party glance at eachother awkwardly and finally Mr. Houlder speaks up, his voice as solemn and gravelly as ever.

"Are you sure that's wise, Mr. Holmes? He'll want to know about this Moriarty fellow and then of course you'll have to tell him about...about John."

"Don't you think I don't know that? It will no doubt..._shock_ him, but my brother isn't really one for feelings, Mr. Houlder. Sometimes I wonder whether there really is a heart under that chest. His brain seems to filter it out."

There is a silence as these words sink in.

"In all due respect, sir, are you sure you know your brother as well as all that?"

"I know my brother, Mr. Houlder, and I know that he regards caring as a disadvantage. We were raised to."

Mycroft doesn't wait for him to reply. He'll have them know that he holds a minor position in the British Government, thank you very much, and he doesn't like chewing things over.

If he knew how much his brother had been changed in the short space of a month, maybe he'd reconsider.

He has no idea what John was to Sherlock. Has no idea that it is possible for a sociopath to fall in love with his male roommate in less than 30 days. No doubt he was an experiment; _'what will happen if I do this? How about I try being nice to people?' _

If Sherlock had wanted a proper friend, surely he'd find someone more adequate. What would his brother, his cold and calculating brother want with another brainless footballer clone?

He'll do what he has to do.

* * *

When Sherlock wakes the next morning the umbrella is still there.

Someone else is too.

Mycroft knows before his brother has even opened his eyes that Sherlock is awake. No time for pretenses. He wants this over with as soon as possible so he can finally leave this godforsaken place. He'll get Anthea to arrange a nice cake to be waiting for him when he gets back to the office.

By the way his day has been going so far, _and_ the somewhat dismal prospect of the upcoming conversation, it's going to have to be a double chocolate. Bordering even on triple.

Okay, definitely make that triple... With cream.

He chuckles to himself despite the ominous shadow hanging over the room. Screw the bloody diet.

"Sherlock. Glad to see you're awake."

The boy blinks wearily and looks at his brother. His hair is matted and untamed and his eyes are bloodshot. Mycroft wonders for a second what would have happened if his people had not turned up when they did. If Sherlock had died.

He doesn't get the chance to expand on this thought as Sherlock begins to speak.

He's almost glad. He doesn't know what he would have told himself.

"Where's John?"

It's said with such a casual innocence that Mycroft realises the inevitable. Sherlock really has no idea, not yet. How could he?

His little brother, so human at times yet so alien at others has been held oblivious to the condition of his best and only friend in the entire world. With a sickening clarity, the man pictures the burnt little boy in the hospital bed, only a few doors down from Sherlock's own room.

Mycroft should be relieved that it's not his brother who had been hurt, but he knows that really, this will hurt him more. More than anyone can know. The scars he'd been bearing before seem insignificant now, tiny srcatches; a paper cut on the end of a finger.

Just artificial pain.

At the time they seem consuming and unbearable. For some they are. You can't imagine anything greater. It's only once you've experienced a true agony that you really understand.

It's unfair how some people suffer so much and some so little.

"John is... recovering."

His eyebrows stitch together in confusion.

"Recovering from what?"

"Don't you remember, Sherlock?"

He is silent for a couple of seconds and Mycroft can see the cogs whirring in his brain, so fast they're almost disappearing into the cluttered backdrop. Then his eyes light up, and the man knows that his brother still hasn't understood, not quite.

"I know about Moriarty, _My_croft, I'm not an idiot. How did you find me, anyway?"

_Should I be doing this?_

"_Try_ to remember."

"What am I not remembering? Your men...and- and John, you came in and took him away! What else _is_ there?"

Mycroft just stares.

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes out heavily. The thoughts are eating away at his brain and his head is pounding, the ever familiar bass drum_. _But he's got to remember- recall this thing that is so important, so vital. It's there, somewhere in his mind. He can feel it pushing against the base of his skull.

But all he can see is John.

_John running through the flames and Sherlock screaming for him to stop; 'John it's too dangerous- I'm fine, go back!'- but John doesn't go back and Sherlock can only watch as the skin on his bare arms blackens and John cries out in agony, still running._

_He reaches Sherlock but all the boy can see is the puckered, burned skin on his face. He can't see the heavenly blue eyes that he'd dreamed of seeing so close up ever since they'd first met, can't see the dimple that appears when he's smiling._

_He definitely isn't smiling now._

Sherlock's eyes snap open, but they are unseeing and distant.

"Where is he."

It's barely a question.

"Room 34- just down the hall. I-I think you better see him, Sherlock."

Mycroft picks up his umbrella and leaves the room.

He doesn't turn round. He'd thought that Sherlock's pain would overwhelm him to a point almost beyond sanity, but instead there's just this blank, cold boy with the blank, cold eyes. Maybe those emotions have finally left him, so fleeting though they were. _Caring is not an advantage_. Up until now, his little brother had stuck to this rule faithfully. Before John, he wouldn't have even questioned it.

But a time before John isn't something even worth mentioning.

* * *

John lies in the bed, oblivious to the world.

He is hooked to some machine that keeps beeping and the pipes look odd coming out of his nose, surreal and alien-like. Sherlock focuses on them, not wanting to look at the rest of the boy's face.

When he finally does, he throws up onto the floor and is ushered out by a kind nurse with a watery eyes and greying hair. She looks at the shaking boy in sympathy and assumes what they all do.

The machine continues to beep and John lies there still, body unmoving, face puckered and shiny.

* * *

Sherlock knows what he needs to do and he hates himself for it. He wants to soak up in the misery of what he's about to lose but he knows that he can't because then he'll talk himself out of it. This is for the best, he tells himself, but holy _fuck_ this is hard.

In the last few seconds before he does it, Sherlock relives the kiss. He wants each atom in his body to feel the way it felt, the delicious tingle running through his veins like lava. The soft bite of the wind against their chapped lips and the shiver of cold forcing them closer. The slight taste of toffee ice cream lingering in John's mouth.

He regrets the thoughts as soon as they appear.

_This is for the best._ The emotions he had felt, they had been chains. Soft chains locking him in a world filled with jam and kittens and happiness and _John, _but chains nevertheless.

He closes his eyes and the world is shut out. _Go to your happy place. Your mind palace. _

He enters the room. _John's_ room, made especially for him. He sees them mocking Anderson that time in the canteen, he sees hot tea on rainy days, he sees flashes of blonde hair, a fleck of green glinting from blue eyes. There is a quick glance thrown at the furniture, bright and colourful and glittering in John-induced sunlight. The giddiness he feels is sickening.

_Don't linger. Let the memories fall away like tears, fleeting and tragic._

He feels strangely light as it happens, almost as if these imaginary chains had really been there, invisible and holding him down to the ground. It should really be a weight lifted from his chest, but he begins to miss the feel of being grounded. The sky up here is blinding him.

It is quick. Painless. Like falling asleep.

He had considered suicide but he'd thought that would hurt John more. He was right, in a way. But this- this forgetting- this would hurt John in a way it is impossible to imagine.

He deletes the boy from his brain and a month full of memories is lost.

* * *

_A.N/ Sorry. _

_Please review?_


	21. Sherlock, I'm home

_A.N/ Look how speedy I am :) Last installment for a while seeing as I am going on a 2 week hiatus, but don't worry I shall be writing the whole time! Sorry for all pain caused last chapter. Received a lot of 'f*** you's.' (sorry) Well, g'night to you all. Enjoy..._

_Disclaimer: My name is neither Moffat, Gatiss or Thompson._

* * *

Sherlock is released the next day and no other questions are asked concerning blonde haired friends or rings of fire or suit-wearing psychopaths. The burnt little boy in the room a few doors down is unseen and un-thought of, and his dark haired friend, still quite oblivious of him or his current state, passes right by.

He gets back to his dorm and is confused by what he sees. Strewn among his experiments lays a battered paperback; some novel called 'Atonement.' _What? This isn't mine. _

Then he looks around a bit more and there are other things. A pot of jam on the counter. _Two_ mugs sitting next to the kettle. A stripy woollen jumper flung over the worktop.

A battered chocolate ice cream key ring.

He isn't sure why, but this certain object triggers a sign of faint recognition in the back of his head. He closes his eyes and sees waves crashing onto a beach, over and over. The continuous motion replays like a movie in his mind, catching each time on the same point. He keeps waiting for something more to happen and the nervous anticipation of the next scene worries him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of blonde. The blurred edge of a sleeve.

_Cut._

The scene replays and the smudge of golden hair doesn't reappear.

He continues to wait. He can almost smell the mouth watering tingle of vinegar and hot chips, but he doesn't understand because how can he smell something he's _never actually smelt before._

The question tangles itself up in his brain, fumbling around and tripping over other loose thoughts. Soon it is lost among the wreckage, hidden under cold cases and questionable deductions. Sherlock walks to his bed and flops onto it ungainly. Sleep seems appealing. The painkillers they gave him at the hospital slow his movements and a yawn escapes his mouth.

Something is wrong but he doesn't know what.

And he is sad, oh so hopelessly sad.

_But why?_

* * *

The boy is called John Watson, that's all he knows.

They give him an odd look when he asks but that's not so much of a surprise. Apparently the boy was brought to hospital around the same time as him and is still there, recovering from some horrible deformity. Something to do with first degree burns according to the headteacher.

_Interesting._

He wonders what happened.

_Self mutilation? Gangs? Accidental tragedy?_

He clears the boy's stuff away and pretends he lives alone. In his head he tries to deduce and analyse the facts, but there are none as of yet and that's his number one rule. Never try to fit your own stories around meagre evidence. Solid proof; that's what you need.

He doesn't go into the stranger's room. There seems to be some kind of invisible force pushing him back. And then again, there is that weird sense of deja vu or not-quite-remembering in the back of his head. The smell of apple flavoured lotion or cosmetic of some sort. A glimpse of twinkly blue eyes that he recognises as something he should be able to recall, but can't, because he's _never seen these eyes before._

He doesn't understand and it hurts.

* * *

A week later the boy wakes up.

He has developed asthma and the doctors say that some of his more serious burns will never fade, scarring his mutilated flesh until the worms eat away at his skin. He thought he would mind, but in the end it's not so much. He's not so shallow as to dwell on some unchangeable occurence.

He asks for Sherlock but they seem to think he's delusional. He cries and shouts and screams but Sherlock doesn't come.

Sometimes he wonders if the boy is lying in hospital too. For some reason he can't imagine Sherlock just going back to school and waiting. Going about his daily routine. Solving cases.

Not coming to see John.

They say he'll be let out in a week. Got to sort out some surgery first, set in the drugs at an easy dosage. Precautions, apparently. Then they'll let him out.

He plans out what will happen. They'll walk up to eachother and it will be awkward at first. Like on the beach, they'll both start to speak at the same time and then fall silent in a shy embarassment. John would break it first. He'd begin talking but Sherlock would cut him off with a look, a look so passionate yet tender at the same time that John can barely breathe. Then they'd kiss and their bodies would move in an aligned motion and the heat of their two souls would combine in one surreal moment.

The thoughts that grace the white hospital pillow are ones of love and loss and magic.

If only he knew.

* * *

He counts down the days, marking them off in red pen on a sketched out calendar.

They give him paper and he draws. Hedgehogs and jam jars, scarves and ice-creams. Curly haired detectives holding hands with sandy haired doctors. Suits. Fire. Tea. Jumpers.

When he gets fed up of drawing he writes.

He writes cases he and Sherlock will go on when they're older. Each murder scene is described in a careful scrutiny. That bit's easy. It takes him a while to write the deductions. Whenever he does they seem amateur and childish, the fantasies of a delusional teenager. Not like Sherlock at all.

With one day to go there is nothing left to write. Drawings fill page after page of his notebook. Towards the end all he sees are careless scribbles, the faint etching of a face here, something that resembles a scarf there. He is bored, and thinking of Sherlock is nothing compared to the real thing.

He never gets him right. Sometimes he is portrayed as too cold, others too kind.

That boy is an enigma all right.

* * *

He's home. Sherlock isn't here yet.

He'll surprise him.

* * *

"Sherlock."

John's voice almost catches. He drinks in the presence of his friend, gazing at the face, the cheekbones, the hair, the _everything_ that is Sherlock. He waits for the whispered response and the eye contact and the kiss.

It doesn't come.

"Ah, hello. You must be John Watson."

He sticks out a hand which is funny because Sherlock doesn't _do_ manners. Something about this boy reminds him of a dream he once had. Fuzzy images spring up in his mind but he quashes them, brushing other thoughts away with the wave of an imaginary hand.

"Huh?"

It must be the hair. The flash of blonde in that memory.

"Well it was lovely meeting you and all but I'm afraid I've got to dash. Seem to have left my chemistry textbook in the lab."

"Wha..._meeting_ me? What are you talking about?"

"Well we have just met, John. Do _think_ before you speak."

"This isn't funny, Sherlock."

"How _do_ you know my name, anyway?"

"Sherlock...th-the beach, then he took you... Moriarty? How can you not remember?"

Sherlock's eyes snap towards John's. _What?_

"How do you know about Moriarty?"

"Sh-"

"No. You work for Mycroft, don't you. He's spying on me again, I know it. Well, you can tell my brot-"

"Sherlock. It's me- John."

This voice. More memories, clearer now. Laughing.

"...I know who you are."

The eyes. The same blue as before.

John is silent. They stare at eachother. As he closes his eyes the look on the blonde boy's face is confused and stricken. _Breathe in. Breathe out._

"This is because...because of the kiss, right? Look, Sherlock, you've got know that I'm sorry, _oh god_ you can't understand how damned sorry I am! Please, mate, you've got to believe me."

The sleeve of the jumper.

"Please."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. I'm sorry, but what _kiss? _Do you want me to get a teacher? Is your head sti-"

He is cut off as a pair of chapped lips meet his own.

Before he can even register shock or surprise his eyes are closing and he is leaning in to the embrace. The warmth and sparking fireworks and _nice_ness of this whole thing makes him forget that he has no idea who this boy is or _what the hell_ is going on.

Then it comes back.

The catch on the beach scene smooths over. Fish and chips. The scarf. The kiss.

Leaving.

John running through a ring of flame.

"John?"

* * *

_A.N/ Hopefully this makes up for the awful deed I committed last chapter. Fluff and (sorry) more angst to come. Only a few chapters left! :'(_

_I chose the novel to be Atonement because I am reading it at the moment and it is mind blowing. Hardcore stuff. I recommend it. (though not for emotional people, it'll bloody kill you) And, last but definitely not least, R-E-V-I-E-W.  
Please. Please. Sugar on top. Pleaseeeee. _


	22. Scratchings of ink

**A/N: **Another chapter for you dorks to feast on. I'm afraid to say that the road ahead is coming to a close and this is- *sniffs* - one of the last chapters. About 2-3 left, I think? Of course if you want more I will obey. There's always room for a few chapters of plotless high school romance and healing time. Violin playing and fish and chips and what have you. Thanks to all people who reviewed last chapter, I received an insane amount. Anyhow, sorry for the wait.

Disclaimer: All rights belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. Those _magnificent_ wizards.

(dedicated to my friend Keith because she... sorry, _he, _wanted a chapter for himself. He's a real smart guy, is Keith. Great at doing business and all.)

* * *

The word escapes his mouth before he can stop it and it tumbles about the room in cascades; multiplying, breeding, festering. It lingers, curdling on his tongue as a sour reminder that what is about to come is his own doing. _This is your fault. Everything. John, forgetting, _every_thing_.

He could throw up right now, if he wanted.

"John?"

John pulls away and the dark haired boy suddenly feels inexplicably _cold_. His fingers stiffen with an imaginary frost, at a loss now they aren't tangled up in blond hair, contracting and pulling and all the while begging for _more, _more_ John._ He craves the warmth that was felt as they were together. As they were joined, were bonded; a graft. How they melded into one being with such ease it's as if they were never any different.

He could easily throw up.

"_What_? I don't understand."

He can see everything as though it is happening right now. He tries to close his eyes but the fire burns through the dark only to be introduced in an even stronger clarity and it hurts, it hurts so fugging _much_. And John keeps repeating the same phrase, over and over and over: _'What? I don't understand.'_

Of course he doesn't understand. If he did would he _be_ here, would he even acknowledge Sherlock with as much as a glance or a scornful sneer? Would he crumble and break and weaken, a trembling ghost of what he once was, what he once knew?

He wonders if he would leave a stain on the carpet. He could easily throw up.

"I don't understand. Please just _tell_ me what's going on."

"I-I _can't_."

"Fucking _hell, _Sherlock, you're not allowed to _do this_! I've been lying in a bleeding hospital bed for a couple of weeks and you don't even move your goddamned lazy arse to visit? If it's still about- about what _happened;_ then I'm _sorry_, I was an idiot! But you can't just not do _anything! _Shout at me, or - or punch me, for God's sake! Just do something! Can you even begin to understand what's been going through my head all this time? Moriarty _kidnapped_ you, Sherlock, if you haven't got that wrapped 'round your thick skull. He _kidnapped_ you, then set you _alight. _Do you even care-"

"Of course I care, John."

His voice is so strained and so un-_Sherlock_ that for a moment there is just silence. A suffocating fog of nothingness.

John speaks more quietly now. "Please. Just tell me why."

"I can't."

"Don't you _dare_ tell me you can't, Sherlock, you can do anything. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, you're a fugging _genius_. Just. Tell me. Why."

_I forgot about you. I deleted you._

"No."

They stare at eachother, blue eyes meeting impossible ocean. The air in the room is heavy with words left unsaid.

He could easily throw up.

* * *

He does, in the end. Throw up, I mean.

If John were a mean person he'd just leave. But he doesn't; he can't. He wishes he could but he's a doctor and this is what doctors _do. _They help people, don't they?

He tells himself he's only staying because of this reason but he knows that he's lying to himself. He can't leave Sherlock like this. Can't leave him so broken.

_Why won't he tell me what's going on?_

When he is done he leaves the room. Sherlock stays sat on the floor with his legs crossed and stares at a patch in the carpet. He was right. It left a stain.

He tries to wonder if it will come out but thoughts keep swirling back to the same object.

* * *

Sherlock says he isn't a coward, but he is. He's a big fat sissy. A wet girl's blouse. A _pussy._

He considers telling John in person but the fear of rejection or hurt or anger is too great for him to follow through. Instead, like the big fat coward he is, he writes a note. The ink falls from his pen with a surreal ease and begins to form words and sentences he didn't know he was even capable of writing. Words of feeling and love and the utmost _sorrow. _Etchings so filled with his passion they come alive on the page.

Copies get torn up in frustration.

He wonders what life is like without John and finds he can't remember.

* * *

_-John-_

_I'd tell you this to your face but you more than anyone knows I'm not the best individual at putting words together to form something even close to socially acceptable, so this is why I'm writing a letter. How insufferably cliche. But you've shown me recently that maybe cliche isn't as awful as it sounds, so thank you. I guess._

_I also don't really fancy getting punched._

_That's my idea of a joke. I hope that it has made what I am about to say better, though I know it won't have. I just want to let you know that I thoroughly dislike these "joke" things- magnificent wastes of breath, frankly. S__o, again, I hope you appreciate the effort I'm going through to try and make what I have done at least slightly better. _

_You got burned and I couldn't deal with it, so I deleted you._

_Yes, I'm a coward. Yes, you're going to hate me. Give me all the hate you've got because in all honesty none of it's going to be much worse than what I have already given myself._

_I know I'm a coward. I know you're going to hate me. Hell, I even hate myself._

_But you've got to know that I didn't properly forget you. That's never happened before. Nothing- no _one_- has ever come back. Not once they're gone. So I guess that makes you special, in some way._

_Who knew?_

_I'd say I did it to protect you and I did, in a way, but we both know that you're going to tell me that's shit and that I'm going to tell me that's shit; it _is_ shit. A great, stinking vat of it. So now I'm going to say I did it because I didn't want to handle the pain and that it was cowardly and that I'm sorry, because that's what you want to hear, isn't it?_

_I'd say it anyway, John. It's true. I couldn't handle the pain. I'm sorry._

_That took me a while considering the only real purpose of this letter is to tell you_ _what I did and that I'm sorry for it. I _am_ sorry for it, you know. But because of you I've got these god awful "feeling" things that have made this letter one thousand times longer than originally intended._

_God awful, these feelings are. I hope, more than any of the other hopes hoped in this letter that you have the same god awful "feelings" as I have. 'Cause if you don't then this has all been a colossal waste of time. You getting burned, me forgetting, me remembering, writing letters about "feelings" and other crap._

_"Feelings" and "Sherlock Holmes." They sound foreign in the same sentence, don't they?_

_I like foreign._

_I hope _you_ like foreign._

_-SH_

* * *

John isn't as much of a coward as Sherlock, it's not exactly the best trait for an aspiring soldier.

He is a bit, though. I think everyone is, somewhere deep inside.

* * *

_You're a fucking coward. I can't believe you, Sherlock, I just can't. Do you think _I_ could deal with it, or something? Yes, so I got burned. But so did you, _and_ kidnapped,_ and_ missing for God knows how long. Calling me "special" and talking about "feelings" isn't going to make me instantly forgive you, you know. _

_I don't understand you sometimes._

_I don't know what you were thinking. How could you even think that would begin to sort things out? How? An effing note?_

* * *

_If I answer your questions will you answer mine?_

_No, I didn't even wonder what you would think which was obviously very wrong of me._

_I didn't think it would sort things out. I wanted to forget what "things" needed to be "sorted."_

_See above statement ^^_

_Yes, apparently so._

_Do you like foreign?_

* * *

_Don't act smart with me. I'm bloody angry, Sherlock! Please just don't do this._

* * *

_You like foreign?_

* * *

_Yes. Now fuck off._

* * *

_Gladly._

* * *

Sherlock keeps the notes hidden inside Yorrick. He lies on his bed and stares at the skull, remembering when it was _him_ who Sherlock talked to, not John. When the only confidant he had was an inaminate (though, the boy reasons, not _al_ways so) object. No joking, no banter, no secret smiles.

He doesn't know if he can go through that again.

So he lies and waits and watches.

Imagines he can hear the scratch of pen against paper and runs from his bed. Comes back disappointed.

Lies. Waits. Watches.

It turns into a cycle in the following days. He doesn't go to class and the teachers don't call for him.

Lie. Wait. Watch.

* * *

John also keeps the notes, but he tears at them in an almost blind frenzy, their words distorting through the held-back tears.

The pen-scratchings aren't Sherlock's mind.

The notes John writes end up in the bin, scrumpled up in fits of anger. None are really all that different:

_The feelings are indeed god-awful. _

_I like foreign._

_I like foreign, and I love you._

* * *

**A/N: **So there we have it. Sherlock being teenager-y and hormonal, John being stroppy. But of course he has a reason for it. Sherlock was indeed a bit of a dunce. Well, worse than that but I don't want to swear in front of the kiddies. If convenient, review. If inconvenient, review anyway.

It would be really very kind.


	23. And so ends the tale

**A/N:** Oh my gosh. I can't believe it. It's ended. This. Is. The. Last. Chapter.  
Oh holy mother crumpets I'm going to _miss you all so much_! *sobs* We-we've been through such a lot together! I really hope you like this last little bit. It's not that long, but it doesn't need to be, I think.

Shall we proceed?

(INSERT WITTY DISCLAIMER)

* * *

When the dark haired boy finally leaves his room he decides the effort of going to class is far too great for his own liking. Instead he wanders around the dorm in a silken purple dressing gown and conducts hairbrained experiments in the cramped sink; smiling giddily through the haze of colourful chemical fumes. There is no window in the room, and if it were any other time Sherlock would be content with watering eyes and choking on the dangerous toxins, but he thinks of John, and opens the door.

...Then closes it again. There might be people outside, and he really _cannot_ be bothered to get sent to class. The work he's doing now is _miles_ ahead anyway, so really they should be grateful more than anything.

He feels guilty and isn't sure why, then realises he hasn't eaten today. Yet again the boy wonders when it was that John bought permanent location somewhere within his brain. Amongst the steely grey precision and scrutinous planning lays overflowing boxes of items he can't recall ever seeing, items that for some reason or another all wind back to the same source. _John._ Items that once could have been unnoticeable and unextraordinary but now hold a certain sense of warmth and comfort and _right._

In his chemical-induced high the detective loses track of time. He vaguely comprehends the assortment of broken equipment; cracked test tubes containing congealed experiments and various pungent fumes choking up the air, but his mind is buzzing and his eyes are bright and he hasn't been this happy since a time almost forgotten on a beach somewhere.

He is excited and alive and when the door opens he forgets that him and John are meant to be arguing and beams at the doorway. Something in his smile makes John break a little. His cold glare softens.

If Sherlock closes his eyes all he can see is the warm darkness behind his eyelids. The boy can almost convince himself that nothing ever happened; there was no fire, there was no Jim Moriarty, there was no hospital bed or malfunctioning mind palace.

But then he opens them again and John is just standing there looking so bleeding _angry_ and a pain fills his chest with such vigour and such a thudding agony he has to set his face into a grimace and feel his whole body tense up into its pre-John statue-like form.

What he hates the most about all of this is that not one fibre of his being could ever be without John, not one bit, not even at all.

He wants to stride up to that _stupid evil unforgiving god awful _boy and to kiss him, to feel the crooked smile on his lips and to hear his breath coming in short gasps as they embrace. He wants to runs his fingers through his hair and to-

_Oh god._

This is bad.

This is really, really bad.

And then John is speaking to him but he can't hear words because they're merging together into one being and he wants to just curl up and let it wash over him and tattoo his skin with sonnets and poems and this _voice_.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I-I saw your brother just now, ...out in the hallway. He says he wants to speak to you. Abou-about Moriarty."

Sherlock doesn't miss the waver in the boy's voice.

"Did he tell you what exactly it was about Moriarty?"

"Yes," John says, and the waver is gone almost as quickly as it arrived. What Sherlock does or is concerned with is no longer his problem, thank you very much.

"Then tell me, if that's quite alright. I have no desire to speak to _dear_ Mycroft."

"Tough."

Sherlock's eyes flicker downwards for a second and John sees something in them he can't bring himself to name.

"Please, John," he says.

There is a pause that eats away at the air.

"Alright," the boy replies, and the voice with which he speaks is soft and calm. And then Sherlock smiles and John smiles back, and then gulps suddenly as though to clear away something hiding in his throat.

So John tells him. And Sherlock listens and watches and grins, and though the topics of Moriarty and future court cases and Stephanie Read- who, Sherlock is ashamed to say, he had forgotten about- are grim to say the least, they are over quickly and the boys continue to speak late into the night. They glaze over the tricky subjects and enter into the easy banter that was once so frequent, and they laugh and they tease eachother and if accidentally they arrive into realms of the unspeakable, they don't dwell on it further than an awkward silence. And when midnight falls they yawn and stagger into bed, smiling into their pillow-cases as the wave of sleep washes over them, calm and tranquil and at peace.

By the morning it's as if the last few weeks never even happened.

But, to show his apology, Sherlock buys John a pot of strawberry jam every week for the next month. John just smiles and raises his eyebrows; allowing his friend to rush around, murmuring about over-brewed tea and 'toast that's going to burn if John doesn't watch out,' and other things he doesn't listen to but savours on the end of his tongue to appreciate another day.

He doesn't tell Sherlock that he forgave him a long time ago. It's always good to have people right where you want them, and being waited on hand and foot isn't something he likes to give up easily.

(Sherlock knows he is forgiven, but pretends to stay oblivious.)

(John also knows that Sherlock knows. But he likes being waited on.)

All, you could say, is well.

* * *

And so the weeks turn into months. It becomes colder outside, layers of the daintiest frost coating the world in a surreal sprinkling of icing sugar and fairydust. They catch snowflakes on their tongue and build ice forts and stay up into the early hours of the morning, planning battle routines to ambush Anderson and his cronies.

And if their glances become more frequent and grow a little longer with each passing day, nothing amounts to them.

Are they scared? _Perhaps._

Are they in love? _Indefinitely._

And if sometimes on the days when the cold is so harsh they sit _just that little bit_ closer, they don't blush or stutter or tense up. And if their legs brush against eachother ever so slightly, they'll just bite their lip and grin and make a passing comment about the sudden unexpected warmth.

All they really do is smile these days.

And then it's Christmas, and the school is filled with decorations so gaudy their eyes begin to hurt.

Sherlock finds out that John is a firm believer in the immediate abolition of brussel sprouts, and John finds out that Sherlock is a closet caroller. And then they walk to Penzance and buy their gifts and pass by the sea front without looking downwards, because maybe if they did it would all come back and it _can't,_ it just _can't,_ because _finally_ everything is right again.

And on the day before they leave for home they exchange presents and they smile some more and if it is by chance or by fate that there is a sprig of mistletoe above their heads they aren't quite certain. And if they kiss and if the world slows down and if they become so lost in eachother's eyes it's hard to move away it doesn't make a difference, because they have acknowledged by now that they are in love and there's no point denying it any longer.

And if Sherlock buys John the most ridiculously ugly snowman jumper and if John buys Sherlock an even more ridiculous reindeer one, they don't get embarrassed. They just crack up laughing and pull them over their heads and avoid their families for the rest of the day so they can whisper into the phone.

And if their families notice something is odd, they relent to say.

And so the months turn into years and so the years turn into decades, and suddenly they are both 30 and they wonder where the time went, and why it was so fast, so fleeting.

And if one day they hear about a fire, or pass a man in a Westwood suit, or see a child being led into hospital, they will swallow the lumps in their throats and kiss for just that second longer. And if one of them says: "I love you," the other will say it back, and they'll realise that yes, they are in love, and they are in it deep.

Theyareinlovetheyareinloveth eyareinlovetheyareinlovethey areinlovetheyareinlove.

It started with a dormitory share and a murder and ice creams on the beach.

It ended with two men so helplessly and irrevocably and _utterly_ in love it is almost painful to watch.

(But not really.)

Well. There we have it.

And so ends the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

(And if they order fish and chips every Sunday, then..._well.)_

(...screw you.)

* * *

_THE END_

* * *

**A/N:** *gulps* G-Goodbye, my dear friends. It's been a long journey and it's finally over.  
...Wow. You've all been _SO GOOD TO ME_. But do you know what a great leaving present would be? Reviewing just this one last time?

Thanks to everyone who has ever reviewed or favourited or subscribed to this story, especially all my dedicated lovelies. You know who you are.

This is goodbye, then.

(Oh, and I seem to be the kind of person who shamelessly advertises her other fics on her...other fics. _So_. Check out my profile, if you've liked this. I've written another Sherlock fic and some Harry Potter ones for all you Potterheads out there. *here ends shameless advertisement*)

BYE BYE BYE.


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